Jasmine bloom and butchered bull.
Endless paving. Map. Room. Harp. Dawn.
The girl feigns a jasmine bull
and the bull’s a bleeding sunset, bellowing.
If the sky were a tiny child,
half the jasmines’ night would be darkness,
the bull a blue arena without matadors,
and a heart at the foot of a column.
But the sky’s an elephant,
and jasmine bloodless water.
The girl’s a bough by night
on the huge dark paving.
Between the bull and the jasmine
either marble claws or people sleeping.
In the jasmine, an elephant and clouds
and in the bull the girl’s skeleton.
Federico Garcia Lorca