Never let me lose the marvel of your statue-like eyes, or the accent the solitary rose of your breath places on my cheek at night. I am afraid of being, on this shore, a branchless trunk, and what I most regret is having no flower, pulp, or clay for the worm of my despair. If you are my hidden treasure, if you are my cross, my dampened pain, if I am a dog, and you alone my master, never let me lose what I have gained,
The night above. We two. Full moon. I started to weep, you laughed. Your scorn was a god, my laments moments and doves in a chain. The night below. We two. Crystal of pain. You wept over great distances. My ache was a clutch of agonies over your sickly heart of sand. Dawn married us on the bed, our mouths to the frozen spout of unstaunched blood. The sun came through the shuttered balcony and the coral of life opened its branches over my sh..
Libros! !Libros! Hace aqui una palabra magica que equivale a decir: "amor, amor", y que debian los pueblos pedir como piden pan o como anhelan la lluvia para sus sementeras. Cuando el insigne escritor ruso Fedor Dostoyevsky, padre de la revolucion rusa mucho mas que Lenin estaba prisionero en la Siberia, alejado del mundo, entre cuatro paredes y cercado por desoladas llanuras de nieve infinita; y pedia socorro en carta a su lejana familia, ..
I can't listen to you. I can't listen to your voice. It's as though I'd drunk a bottle of anise and fallen asleep wrapped in a quilt of roses. It pulls me along - and I know I'm drowning - but I go on down.
In the green morning I wanted to be a heart. A heart. And in the ripe evening I wanted to be a nightingale. A nightingale. (Soul, turn orange-colored. Soul, turn the color of love.) In the vivid morning I wanted to be myself. A heart. And at the evening's end I wanted to be my voice. A nightingale. Soul, turn orange-colored. Soul, turn the color of love. -
The round silence of night, one note on the stave of the infinite. Ripe with lost poems, I step naked into the street. The blackness riddled by the singing of crickets: sound, that dead will-o'-the-wisp, that musical light perceived by the spirit. A thousand butterfly skeletons sleep within my walls. A wild crowd of young breezes over the river.
Ay que sinrazon! No quiero contigo cama ni cena y no hay un minuto del dia que estar contigo no quisiera, porque me arrastras y voy, y me dices que me vuelva y te sigo por el aire como una brizna de hierba.
Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful! We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead dahlias. But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams do not exist; flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths in a thicket of new veins,
Verde que te quiero verde. Verde viento. Verdes ramas. El barco sobre la mar y el caballo en la montana. Con la sombra en la cintura ella suena en su baranda, verde carne, pelo verde, con ojos de fria plata.
Everyone understands the pain that accompanies death, but genuine pain doesn't live in the spirit, nor in the air, nor in our lives, nor on these terraces of billowing smoke. The genuine pain that keeps everything awake
NOVIA. !Porque yo me fui con el otro, me fui! (Con angustia.) Tu tambien te hubieras ido. Yo era una mujer quemada, llena de llagas por dentro y por fuera,y tu hijo era un poquito de agua de la que yo esperaba hijos, tierra, salud; pero el otro era un rio oscuro, lleno de ramas, que acercaba a mi el rumor de sus juncos y su cantar entre dientes. Y yo corria con tu hijo que era como un ninito de agua, frio, y el otro me mandaba cientos de pa..
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, ..
To see you naked is to remember the Earth, the smooth Earth, clean of horses, the Earth without reeds, pure form, closed to the future, confine of silver. To see you naked is to understand the desire of rain that looks for the delicate waist, or the fever of the broad-faced sea that cannot find the light of its cheek. Blood will ring through the bedrooms and will come with flaming swords, but you will not know the hiding places of the viole..
Que vidrios se me clavan en la lengua! Porque yo quise olvidar y puse un muro de piedra entre tu casa y la mia. Es verdad. ?No lo recuerdas? Y cuando te vi de lejos me eche en los ojos arena. Pero montaba a caballo y el caballo iba a tu puerta. Con alfileres de plata mi sangre se puso negra, y el sueno me fue llenando las carnes de mala hierba. Que yo no tengo la culpa, que la culpa es de la tierra y de ese olor que te sale de los pechos y ..
I sing your restless longing for the statue, your fear of the feelings that await you in the street. I sing the small sea siren who sings to you, riding her bicycle of corals and conches. But above all I sing a common thought that joins us in the dark and golden hours.
shkhlhy nb khh Grq shdnd ,zyri jyrjyri glhy mrwryd .fhmydm khh mr khshthnd ,khfhh r gshth bwdnd bhkhTri mn, gwrstnh r, w khlysh r ,z sri khnj khwy bshkhhh w gnjhh r gshwdh bwdnd .sh skhlt r nbwd khrdnd khh dndnhy Tlyshn r drawrnd .m dygr pydym nkhrdnd pyd nkhrdnd? .nh, pydym nkhrdnd ,m fhmydnd khh mhi hftm z brbri sylb grykhth st w dry nghn! bh yd awrd nmi hmh y an h r khh Grq shdh bwdnd
Amor de mis entranas, viva muerte, en vano espero tu palabra escrita y pienso, con la flor que se marchita, que si vivo sin mi quiero perderte. El aire es inmortal. La piedra inerte ni conoce la sombra ni la evita. Corazon interior no necesita la miel helada que la luna vierte. Pero yo te sufri. Rasgue mis venas, tigre y paloma, sobre tu cintura en duelo de mordiscos y azucenas. Llena pues de palabras mi locura
The river Guadalquivir Flows between oranges and olives The two rivers of Granada Descend from the snow to the wheat Oh my love! Who went and never returned The river Guadalquivir Has beards of maroon The two rivers of Granada One a cry the other blood
Gacela of the Flight" I have lost myself in the sea many tunes with my ear full of freshly cut flowers, with my tongue full of love awl agony. I have lost myself in the sea many times as I lose myself in the heart of certain children. There is no one who in giving a kiss does not feel the smile of faceless people, and no one who in touching a newborn child forgets the motionless skulls of horses. Because the roses search in the forehe..
The children watch a distant point. Lamps go out. Some blind girls question the moon and spirals of grief rise in the air. The mountains survey a distant point.
Estas manos que son tuyas, pero que al verte quisieran quebrar las ramas azules y el murmullo de tus venas. !Te quiero! !Te quiero! !Aparta! Que si matarte pudiera, te pondria una mortaja con los filos de violetas. !Ay, que lamento, que fuego me sube por la cabeza!
Los cien enamorados duermen para siempre bajo la tierra seca. Andalucia tiene largos caminos rojos. Cordoba, olivos verdes donde poner cien cruces que los recuerden. Los cien enamorados duermen para siempre. - Those hundred lovers are asleep forever beneath the dry earth. Andalusia has long, red-colored roads. Cordoba, green olive trees for placing a hundred crosses to remember them. Those hundred lovers are asleep forever.