delirio

Fragmented evening,
field in silence.
Bee-eaters in flight,
a sigh.
Backcloth of blue and white
deliriums.
The landscape opens
its arms wide.
All too much,
Dear God!

Federico Garcia Lorca

of the open air dream

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

i was sitting

I was sitting in a Third-Class carriage; an old priest
Took out his pipe and stuck his calm head,
With its pale hair, out of the window, into the wind.
Then this Christian, ignoring gibes and provocations,
Turned and asked me, vigour tinged with sadness,
If I could spare him some tobacco – seems
He’d once been head padre to some Royal or other
Sentenced yet again –
To lessen the boredom of a tunnel, dark vein
Opened to passengers, near Soissons, a town in Aisne.

Arthur Rimbaud

the silence

My child, hear the silence.
An undulating silence,
a silence
of sliding valleys and echoes
tilting brows
towards the ground.

Federico Garcia Lorca

sesamo

The reflection is
what’s real.
The river
and sky
are doors to take us
to the Eternal.
Down beds of frogs
or beds of bright stars
our love will go off, singing
the morning of the great flight.
The reflection is
what’s real.
Only a heart remains,
only one wind.
Don’t weep!
Near or far,
it’s the same.
Eternal Narcissus,*
Nature’s way.

Federico Garcia Lorca

landscape without song

Blue sky.
Yellow field.

Blue mountain.
Yellow field.

Across the scorched plain
an olive tree drifts.

One lone
olive
tree.

Federico Garcia Lorca

horizonte

A sun without rays
spills on green mist.

The shaded riverside
dreams at the pace of a boat
and the unavoidable
bell measures melancholy.

In my spent soul
the sound of a small
silver drum.

Federico Garcia Lorca

but when I have

But when I have closed my eyes
When you lie beneath the violets
Or brambles like me
When the clouds above us
Will take shape and crumble like us,
Who will speak for us?
Who will say: ‘‘You, your eyes
Are the colour of dreaming
And young slates
Which tile the Spring of rains.

And you: Your skin
Is the thrush singing,
Your hands my warmth
And summer’s fever
Which bears your name.’’

Time goes where it will
Puts down its costume of jonquils
And water where it will,
We have nothing more
Than a butterfly wing drying
Against night’s windows.
We are nothing more than a dust
Inside the avid lips of the wind.
Only language
Is lasting bronze.

Claude de Burine

te saluer

Greet you
The way carnations are thrown
In summer
On keen slabs.

Name you
The way a fire is lit
In an empty street.

Touch you
The way bread is touched
When it alone brings life.

Claude de Burine