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

landscape without song

Blue sky.
Yellow field.

Blue mountain.
Yellow field.

Across the scorched plain
an olive tree drifts.

One lone

Federico Garcia Lorca

a comparasion

When the wind strikes gently upon a sea that is blue,
this craven heart is roused within me, and my love of the land
yields to the desire of the great water. But when the deep waxes
grey and loud, and the sea begins to swell and to foam and the waves
run long and wild, then took I unto the shore and its trees and depart from
the brine, then welcome is the land to me and pleasant the shady greenwood,
where, be the wind never so high, the pine-trees sing her song. O ti’s ill
to be a fisher with a ship for his house and the sea for his labour and
the fishes for his slippery prey. Rather it is sleep beneath the leafy plane
for me, and the sound hard by of a bubbling spring such as delights
and do not disturb the rustic ear.



The field
of olive trees
opens and closes
like a fan.
Above the olive grove
a sunken sky,
and a cold dark rain
of morning-stars.
Half-light and rushes tremble
at the river’s edge.
Grey air crinkles.
The olive trees
are freighted
with cries.
A flock
of captive birds
moves long long tails
in the gloom.

Federico Garcia Lorca