Federico Garcia Lorca

 

LAMENT FOR IGNACIO SANCHEZ MEJIAS

 

At five in the afternoon.
It was exactly five in the afternoon.
A boy brought the white sheet
at five in the afternoon.
A basketful of lime in readiness
at five in the afternoon.
Beyond that, death and death alone
at five in the afternoon.

The wind carried off wisps of cotton
at five in the afternoon.
And oxide dispersed glass and nickel
at five in the afternoon.
Dove locked in struggle with leopard
at five in the afternoon.
A thigh with a horn of desolation
at five in the afternoon.
The bass strings began to throb
at five in the afternoon.
The bells of arsenic, the smoke
at five in the afternoon.
At street corners silence clustering
at five in the afternoon.
Only the bull with upbeat heart
at five in the afternoon.
When snow-cold sweat began to form
at five in the afternoon.
when iodine had overspread the ring
at five in the afternoon.
death laid eggs in the wound
at five in the afternoon.
At exactly five in the afternoon.

A coffin on wheels is the bed
at five in the afternoon.
Bones and flutes resound in his ear
at five in the afternoon.
The bull was bellowing in his face
at five in the afternoon.
Death pangs turned the room iridescent
at five in the afternoon.
In the distance gangrene on the way
at five in the afternoon.
Lily-trumpet in the verdant groin
at five in the afternoon.
When wounds burned with the heat of suns
at five in the afternoon.
and the throng burst through the windows
at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon.
Horrifying five in the afternoon
the stroke of give on every clock.
The dark of five in the afternoon.

 

 

Ballad of the Moon, Moon

The moon came into the forge
in her bustle of flowering nard.
The little boy stares at her, stares.
The boy is staring hard.
In the shaken air
the moon moves her amrs,
and shows lubricious and pure,
her breasts of hard tin.
"Moon, moon, moon, run!
If the gypsies come,
they will use your heart
to make white necklaces and rings."
"Let me dance, my little one.
When the gypsies come,
they'll find you on the anvil
with your lively eyes closed tight.
"Moon, moon, moon, run!
I can feelheir horses come."
"Let me be, my little one,
don't step on me, all starched and white!"

Closer comes the the horseman,
drumming on the plain.
The boy is in the forge;
his eyes are closed.
Through the olive grove
come the gypsies, dream and bronze,
their heads held high,
their hooded eyes.

Oh, how the night owl calls,
calling, calling from its tree!
The moon is climbing through the sky
with the child by the hand.

They are crying in the forge,
all the gypsies, shouting, crying.
The air is veiwing all, views all.
The air is at the viewing.