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