by Federico García Lorca
    translated by Cola Franzen
     
    The weeping of the guitar
    begins.
    The goblets of dawn
    are smashed.
    The weeping of the guitar
    begins.
    Useless
    to silence it.
    Impossible
    to silence it.
    It weeps monotonously
    as water weeps
    as the wind weeps
    over snowfields.
    Impossible
    to silence it.
    It weeps for distant
    things.
    Hot southern sands
    yearning for white camellias.
    Weeps arrow without target
    evening without morning
    and the first dead bird
    on the branch.
    Oh, guitar!
    Heart mortally wounded


    by five swords.

     

    http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/16742

     

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