weathervane

South wind.
Dark and burning,
soaked with orange blossoms,
you come over my flesh,
bringing me seed
of brilliant gazes.

You turn the moon red,
make captive poplars moan,
but you’ve come
too late!
I’ve already scrolled up the night
of my tale on the shelf!

Without any wind
—Look sharp! —
Turn, heart.
Turn, my heart.

Northern air,
white bear of the wind!
You come over my flesh
shivering with boreal
auroras, with your cape of phantom
captains,
laughing aloud at Dante.
Oh polisher of stars!
But you’ve come too late.
My case is musty
and I’ve lost the key.

Without any wind
—Look sharp! —
Turn, heart.
Turn, my heart.

Gnome breezes and winds
from nowhere.
Mosquitoes of the rose
with pyramid petals.

Federico Garcia Lorca

what was life

What was life
what
what rotten apple
what leftover
what waste.

If it was a rose
if it was
a golden cloud
and should have flowered
light
in the air.

If it was a rose
if it was a gay flame
if it was anything
weightless
that causes
no pain
that is content to be
anything, anything
that is easy
easy.

It could not have been made up of corridors
of sordid dawns
of revulsion
of unlit tasks
of routines, of credits
it could not have been
it could not.

Not that
what it was
what it is
the dirty air
of the street
the winter
the many errors
the miseries
exhaustion

in a deserted world

Idea Vilariño

a window

The sky dreams clouds for the real world
with matter enamored of light and space.
Today dunes scatter over a reef,
sands with marine waves that are snows.
So many chance crossings, by fanciful caprice,
there in plain view with an irresistible
smiling reality. I dwell on the edges
of solid transparent depths.
The air is enclosing, displaying, enhancing
the leaves on the branch, the branches on the trunk,
walls, eaves, corners, pillars:
Calm proof of the evening,
requiring a windows tranquil vision.
Details chime with their surroundings:
smooth pebbles, there a fence, then a wire.
Every minute finds its own aureole,
or is it fancy dreaming this glass?
I am like my window. I marvel at the air.
Beauty so limpid, now so in accord,
between the sun and the mind! There are polished words,
but I would like to know as the June air knows.
The poplars stirring makes a visible breeze,
in a circle of peace the evening encloses me,
and a soaring sky adapts to my horizon.

Jorge Guillén Álvarez

rondel

Love, happiness and content
are birds of passage that
travel the blue of the firmament in a floating line,
breathe out a lament to the air,
and disperse in swift flight.

What are the thousands upon thousands
of generations that shine and sink at sunset,
that are born and succumb in millions?
Birds of passage.

Oh unhappy souls, it is useless
to bind yourself to the world with roots.
Powerful and mysterious impulses
carry us among shadows, aimlessly;
for we are, alas, but eternal wanderers.
Birds of passage.

Manuel González Prada

to the dead butterfly

Your jubilation, in flight;
your restlessness, in the air;
your life, in the sunshine, in the air, in flight.

How tiny your death,
under the light of living fire.
How serene the grace of your wings,
now [pressed] open forever in the book.

And in you, so gentle, in your silent death,
in your dreamless dream,
how many illusions lost in the air,
how many despairing thoughts.

Eugenio Florit

II. Look at the landscape: immensity below…

Look at the landscape: immensity below,
and immensity, immensity above;
in the distant perspective the tall mountain,
sapped at the foot by a terrifying gorge.

Gigantic blocks that the earthquake
has uprooted from the living rock,
and in that brooding and forbidding savannah
not a path or a track.

Desolate and burning air,
studded with calm eagles,
like nails slowly driven home.

A tremendous silence, darkness, and fear,
which only the triumphal gallop of the deer
comes to interrupt, and hardly does so.

Manuel José Othón

ho,ho

Blossoms scent the air
a carefree birdsong
echoes truth.

Gozan

nocturnal air

I’m petrified
by dead leaves,
by meadows
full of dew.
I’ll sleep.
If you don’t wake me,
I’ll leave beside you my cold heart.

‘What’s that sound
so far away?’
‘Love.
The wind on the panes,
my love!’

Round your neck I placed
the gems of dawn.
Why do you desert me
on this road?
If you go off so far
my bird sobs,
and the green vineyard
won’t give its wine.

‘What’s that sound
so far away?’
‘Love.
The wind on the panes,
my love!’

You’ll never know
how much I’d
have loved you,
snow-sphinx,
in those dawns
when it rains so hard
and the nest comes apart
on the dry branch.

‘What’s that sound
so far away?’
‘Love.
The wind on the panes,
my love!’

Federico Garcia Lorca