天涯在线书库《www.tianyabook.com》 《The Poetry of Federico García Lorca》 Adivinanza De La Guitarra Adivinanza De La Guitarra99lib. En la redonda encrucijada, seis doncellas bailan. Tres de e y tres de.99lib. plata. Los sue?os de ayer las bus pero las tiene abrazadas un Polif.９９ｌib.emo de oro. ?La guitarra! Federico García Lorca .99lib.
Arbolé, Arbolé . . . Arbolé, Arbolé . . . English Translation Tree, tree dry and green. The girl with the pretty face is out pig olives. The wind, playboy of towers, grabs her around the waist. Four riders passed by on Andalusian ponies, with blue and green jackets and big, dark capes. "e to Cordoba, muchacha." The girl wont listen to them. Three young bullfighters passed, slender in the waist, with jackets the color es and swords of a silver. "e to Sevilla, muchacha." The girl wont listen to them. Wheernoon had turned dark brown, with scattered light, a young man passed by, wearing roses and myrtle of the moon. "e to Granada, inuchacha." And the girl wont listen to him. The girl with the pretty face keeps on pig olives with the grey arm of the wind ed around her waist. Tree, tree dry and green. Translated by William Logan inal Spanish Arbolé, arbolé, seco y verdí. La ni?a del bello rostro está cogiendo aceituna. El viento, galáorres, la prende por la tura. Pasaron cuatro jies sobre jacas andaluzas, trajes de azul y verde, la藏书网rgas capas oscuras. "Vente a Córdoba, muchacha." La ni?a no los escucha. Pasaron tres ?9９ｌｉb?torerillos delgaditos de tura, trajes color naranja y espadas de plata antigua. "Vente a Córdoba, muchacha." La ni?a no los escucha. do.. la tarde se puso morada, lux difusa, pasó un joven que llevaba r藏书网osas y mirtos de luna. "Vente a Granada, muchacha." Y la ni?a no lo escucha. La ni?a del bello rostro sigue cogiendo aceituna, el brazo gris del viento ce?ido por la tura. Arbolé, arbolé. Seco y verdé. Federico García Lorca Balada Amarilla IV Balada Amarilla IV Sobre el cielo de las margaritas ando. Yo imagia tarde que soy santo. Me pusieron la luna en las manos. Yo la puse otra vez en los 藏书网espacios y el Se?or me premió la rosa y el halo... Sobre el cielo de las margaritas ando. Y ahora voy por.９９ｌｉb.e campo a librar a las ni?as de galanes ma?los y dar monedas de oro a todos los muchachos. Sobre el cielo de las margaritas ando. Ballad of the Moon Ballad of the Moon translated by Will Kirkland The moon etme into the fe in her bustle of fl 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 e, they will use your heart to make white necklaces and rings." "Let me dance, my little one. When the gypsies e, theyll find you on the anvil with your lively eyes closed tight. "Moon, moon, moon, run! I feelheir horses e." "Let me be, my little one, dont step on me, all starched and white!" Closer es the the horseman, drumming on the plain. The boy is in the fe; his eyes are closed. Through the olive grove e the gypsies, dream and bronze, their heads held high, their hooded eyes. Oh, how the night owl calls, calling, calling from藏书网 its tree! The moon is climbin..g through the sky with the child by the hand. They are g in the fe, all the gypsies, shouting, g. The air is veiwing all, views all. The air is at the viewing. Federico García Lorca?9９lｉｂ? Before the Dawn Before the Dawn But like love the archers are blind Upon the green night, the pier藏书网g saetas leave traces of warm lily. Th>?e keel of the moon breaks thr藏书网ough purple clouds and their quivers fill with dew. Ay, but like love the archers are blind! Federico García Lorca City That Does Not Sleep City That Does Not Sleep In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody, nobody. Nobody is asleep. The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their s. The living iguanas will e and bite the men who do not dream, and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the street er the unbelievable alligator quiet beh the tender protest of the stars. Nobody is asleep oh. Nobody, nobody. Nobody is asleep. In a graveyard far off there is a corpse who has moaned for three years because of a dry tryside on his knee; and that boy they buried this m cried so much it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet. Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful! We fall dowairs 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 fetfulness does , dreams do ; flesh ex.9９ｌib?s. Kisses tie our mouths in a thicket of new veins, and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulders. One day the horses will live in the saloons and the enraged ants will throw them>?9９ｌib?selves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the eyes of cows. Another day we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead and still walking through a try of gray sponges and silent boats we will watch flash and roses spring from our tongue. Careful! Be careful! Be careful! The men who still have marks of the claw and the thuorm, and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the iion of the bridge, or that dead man who possesses now only his head and a shoe, we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes are waiting, where the bears teeth are waiting, where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting, and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder. Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody, nobody. Nobody is sleeping. If someone does close his eyes, a whip, boys, a whip! Let there be a landscape of open eyes and bitter wounds on fire. No one is sleeping in this world. No one, no one... I have said it before. No one is sleeping. But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the night, opeage trapdoors so he see in th..e moonlight the lying goblets, and the poison, and the skull of the theaters. Federico García Lorca Ditty of First Desire Ditty of First Desire藏书网 In the green m I wao be a heart. A heart. And in the ripe evening I wao be a nightingale. A nightingale. (Soul, turn e-colored. Soul, turn the color of love.) Ihe vivid m I wao be myself. A heart. And at the evenings end I wao be my voice. A nightingale. Soul, turn e-colored. Soul, turn the color of love. Federico García Lorca El Balcón El Bal Si muero Dejad.. el bal abierto El ni?o e naranjas (Desde mi bal lo veo) El segad>..or siega el trigo (Desde mi bal lo siento) Si muero Dejad el bal abierto Federico García Lorca>藏书网 Fare Well Fare WellFrom my baly I see him.) T藏书网he reaper is harvesting the wheat. (From my baly I hear him.) If I die, leave the baly open! Federico García Lorca>藏书网 Gacela of the Dark Death Gacela of the Dark Death I want to sleep the dream of the apples, to withdraw from the tumult of cemetries. I want to sleep the dream of that child who wao cut his heart on the high seas. I dont want to hear again that the dead do not lose their blood, that the putrid mouth goes on asking for water. I dont want to learn of the tortures of the grass, nor of the moon with a serpents mouth that labors before dawn. I >.9９ｌiｂ?want to sleep awhile, awhile, a minute, a tury; but all must know that I have not died; that there is a s99ｌｉb.table of gold in my lips; that I am the small friend of the West wing; that I am the intense shadows of my tears. Cover me at dawn with a veil, because dawn will throw fistfuls of ants at me, a with hard water my shoes so that the pincers of the scorpion slide. For I want to sleep the dream of the apples, to learn a lament that will cle9９liｂ.anse me to earth; for I want to live with that dark child who wao cut his heart on the high seas. Federico García Lorca Gacela of the Dead Child Gacela of the Dead Child Each afternoon in Granada, each afternoon, a child dies. Each afternoon th99lｉb?e water sits down and chats with its panions. The dead wear mossy wings. The cloudy wind and the clear wi..nd are two pheasants in flight through the towers, and the day is a wounded boy. Not a flicker of lark was left in the air when I met you in the caverns of wine. Not the crumb of a cloud was left in the ground when you were drowned in the river. A giant of water fell dowhe hills, ahe valley was tumbling with lilies and dogs. In my hands violet shadow, your bo?dy, dead on the bank, was an angel of ess. Federico García Lorca Gacela of Unforseen Love Gacela of Unforseen Love No one uood the perfume of the dark magnolia of your womb. Nobody khat you tormented a hummingbird of love between your teeth. A thousand Persian little horses fell asleep in the plaza with moon of your forehead, while through fhts I embraced your waist, enemy of the snow. Between plaster and jasmi..ns, ylance ale branch of seeds. I sought in my heart to give you the ivory letters that say "siempre", "siempre", "siempre" : garden of my agony, your body elusive always, that blood of your veins in my mouth, your mouth already lightless for my death. Federico García Lorca La Casada Infiel La Casada Infiel Y que yo me la llevé al río creyendo que era mozuela, pero tenía marido. Fue la noche de Santiago y casi por promiso. Se apagaron los faroles y se endieron los grillos. En las últimas esquinas toqué sus pechos dormidos, y se me abrieron de pronto os de jatos.. El almi.dón de su enagua me sonaba en el oído, o una pieza de seda rasgada por diez cuchillos. Sin luz de plata en sus copas los árboles han crecido, y un horizonte de perros ladra muy lejos del río. Pasadas la zarzamoras, los juncos y los espinos, bajo su mata de pelo hi hoyo sobre el limo. Yo me quité la corbata. Ella se quitó el vestido. Yo el turón de revólver. Ella sus cuatro corpiños. Ni nardos ni caracolas tienen el cutis tan fino, n藏书网i los critales luna relumbran ese brillo. Sus muslos se me escapaban o peces sorprendidos, la mitad llenos de lumbre, la mitad llenos de frío. Aquella noche corrí el mejor de los os, montado en potra de nácar sin bridas y siribos. No quiero decir, por hombre, las cosas que ella me dijo. La luz del entendimiento me hace ser muy edido. Sucia de besos y arena yo me la llevé al río. el aire se batían las espadas de los lirios. Me porté o quien soy. o un gitano legítimo. La regalé un costurero grande de raso pajizo, y no quise enamorarme porque teniendo marido me dijo que era mozuela do la llevaba al río. Federico García Lorca Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías Lament fnacio Sánchez Mejías 1. Cogida ah At five iernoon. It was exactly five iernoon. A bht the white sheet at five iernoon. A frail of lime ready prepared at five iernoon. The rest was death, ah alone. The wind carried away the cottonwool at five iernoon. And the oxide scattered crystal and nickel at five iernoon. Now the dove and the leopard wrestle at five iernoon. And a thigh with a desolated horn at five iernoon. The bass-string struck up at five iernoon. Arsenic bells and smoke at five iernoon. Groups of silen the ers at five iernoon. And the bull aloh a high heart! At five iernoon. When the sweat of snow w>.９9lib.as ing at five iernoon, when the bull ring was covered with iodine at five iernoon. Death laid eggs in the wound at five iernoon. At five iernoon. At five oclo the afternoon. A coffin on wheels is his bed at five iernoon. Bones and flutes resound in his ears at five iernoon. Now the bull was bellowing through his forehead at five iernoon. The room was iridist with agony at five iernoon. In the distahe gangrene now es at five iernoon. Horn of the lily through green groins at five iernoon. The wounds were burning like suns at five iernoon. At five iernoon. Ah, that fatal five iernoon! It was five by all the clocks! It was five in the shade of the afternoon! 2. The Spilled Blood I will not see it! Tell the moon to e, for I do not want to see the blood of Ignacio on the sand. I will not see it! The moon wide open. Horse of still clouds, and the grey bull ring of dreams with willows in the barreras. I will not see it! Let my memory kindle! Warm the jasmines of such minute whiteness! I will not see it! The cow of the a world passed har sad tongue over a snout of blood spilled on the sand, and the bulls of Guisando, partly death and partly stone, bellowed like two turies sated with threading the earth. No. I will not see it! Ignacio goes up the tiers with all his death on his shoulders. He sought for the dawn but the dawn was no more. He seeks for his fident profile and the dream bewilders him He sought for his beautiful body and entered his opened blood Do not ask me to see it! I do not want to hear it spurt each time with less strength: that spurt that illuminates the tiers of seats, and spills over the cordury and the leather of a thirsty multiude. Who shouts that I should e near! Do not ask me to see it! His eyes did not close when he saw the horns near, but the terrible mothers lifted their heads. And across the ranches, an air of secret voices rose, shouting to celestial bulls, herdsmen of pale mist. There was no prin Sevilla who could pare to him, nor sword like his sword nor heart so true. Like a river of lions was his marvellous strength, and like a marble toroso his firm drawn moderation. The air of Andalusian Rome gilded his head where his smile ikenard of wit and intelligence. What a great torero in the ring! What a good peasant in the sierra! How geh the sheaves! How hard with the spurs! How tender with the dew! How dazzling the fiesta! How tremendous with the final banderillas of darkness! But now he sleeps without end. Now the moss and the gras藏书网s open with sure fingers the flower of his skull. And now his blood es out singing; singing along marshes and meadows, sliden on frozen horns, faltering soulles in the mist stoumbling over a thousand hoofs like a long, dark, sad tongue, to form a pool of agony close to the starry Guadalquivir. Oh, white wall of Spain! Oh, black bull of sorrow! Oh, hard blood of Ignacio! Oh, nightingale of his veins! No. I will not see it! No chalice tain it, no swallows drink it, no frost of light cool it, nor song nor deluge og white lilies, no glass cover mit with silver. No. I will not see it! 3. The Laid Out Body Stone is a forehead where dreames grieve without curving waters and frozen cypresses. Stone is a shoulder on which to bear Time with trees formed of tears and ribbons and plas. I have seen grey showers move towards the waves raising their tender riddle arms, to avoid being caught by lying stone which loosens their limbs without soaking their blood. For stohers seed and clouds, skeleton larks and wolves of penumbra: but yields not sounds nor crystals nor fire, only bull rings and bull rings and more bull rings without walls. Now, Ignacio the well born lies oone. All is finished. What is happening! plate his face: death has covered him with pale sulphur and has pla him the head of dark minotaur. All is fihe rairates his mouth. The air, as if mad, leaves his sunke, and Love, soaked through with tears of snow, warms itself on the peak of the herd. What is they saying? A steng siletles down. We are here with a body laid out which fades away, with a pure shape which had nightingales and we see it being filled with depthless holes. Who creases the shroud? What he says is not true! Nobody sings here, nobody weeps in the er, nobody pricks the spurs, nor terrifies the serpent. Here I want nothing else but the round eyes to see his body without a ce of rest. Here I want to see those men of hard voice. Those that break horses and dominate rivers; those men of sonorous skeleton who sing with a mouth full of sun and flint. Here I want to see them. Before the stone. Before this body with broken reins. I want to know from them the way out for this captain stripped down by death. I want them to show me a lament like a river wich will have sweet mists and deep shores, to take the body of Ignacio where it looses itself without hearing the double planting of the bulls. Loses itself in the round bull ring of the moon which feigns in its youth a sad quiet bull, loses itself in the night without song of fishes and in the white thicket of frozen smoke. I dont want to cover his face with handkerchiefs that he may get used to the death he carries. Go, Ignacio, feel not the hot bellowing Sleep, fly, rest: even the sea dies! 4. Absent Soul The bull does not know you, nor the fig t99lｉb.t>ree, nor the horses, nor the ants in your own house. The child and the afternoon do not know you because you have dead forever. The shoulder of the stone does not know you nor the black silk, where you are shuttered. Your silent memory does not know you because you have died forever The autumn will e with small white snails, misty grapes and clustered hills, but no one will look into your eyes because you have died forever. Because you have died for ever, like all the dead of the earth, like all the> dead who are fotten in a heap of lifeless dogs. Nobady knows you. No. But I sing of you. For posterity I sing of your profile and grace. Of the signal maturity of your uanding. Of your appetite for death and the taste of its mouth. Of the bbr>sadness of your once valiant gaiety. It will be a long time, if ever, before there is born an Andalusian so true, so ri adventure. I sing of his elegah words that groan, and I remember a sad breeze through the olive trees. Federico García Lorca Landscape of a Pissing Multitude Landscape of a Pissing Multitude The meo themselves: they were waiting for the swiftness of the last cyclists. The womeo themselves: they were expeg the death of a boy on a Japanese ser. They all kept to themselves- dreaming of the open beaks of dying birds, the sharp parasol that punctures a retly flatteoad, beh sileh a thousand ears and tiny mouths of water in the yons that resist the violent atta the moon. The boy on the ser was g as were breaking in anguish for the witness and vigilance of all things, and be>ause of the sky blue ground of black footprints, obscure names, saliva, and e radios were still g. It doesnt matter if the boy grows silent when stuck with the last pin, or if the breeze is defeated in cupped cotton flowers, because there is a world of death whose perpetual sailors will appear in the arches and freeze you from behind the trees. Its useless to look for the bend where night loses its way and to wait in ambush for a silehat has no torn clothes, no shells, and no tears, because even the tiny ba of a spider is enough to upset the entire equilibrium of the sky. There is no cure for the moaning from a Japanese ser, nor for those shadowy people who stumble on the curbs. The tryside bites its own tail in order to gather a bunch of roots and a ball of yarn looks anxiously in the grass for unrealized longitude. The Moon! The police. The foghorns of the o liners! Facades of urine, of smoke, anemones, rubber glov..es. Everything is shattered in the night that spread its legs oerraces. Everything is shatter iepid faucets of a terrible silent fountain. Oh, crowds! Loose women! Soldiers! We will have to jourhrough the eyes of idiots, open try where the docile cobras, coiled like wire, hiss, landscapes fu9９liｂ.ll of graves that yield the freshest apples, so that untrollable light will arrive thten the rich behind their magnifying glasses- the odor of a single corpse from the double source of lily and rat- and so that fire will e those crowds still able to piss around a moan or on the crystals in which eaimitable wave is uood. Federico García Lorca Landscape of a Vomiting Multitude Landscape of a Vomiting Multitude The fat lady came out first, tearing out roots and moistening drumskins. The fat lady who turns dying octopuses i. The fat lady, the moons antagonist, was running through the streets aed buildings and leaving tiny skulls of pigeons in the ers and stirring up the furies of the last turies feasts and summoning the demon of bread through the skys -swept hills and filtering a longing fht into subterraunnels. The graveyards, yes the graveyards and the sorrow of the kits buried in sand, the dead, pheasants and apples of another era, pushing it into our throat. There were murmuring from the jungle of vomit with the empty women, with hot wax children, with fermerees and tireless waiters who serve platters of salt beh harps of saliva. Theres no other way, my son, vomit! Theres no other way. Its not the vomit of hussars on the breasts of their whores, nor the vomit of cats that iently swallowed frogs, but the dead who scratch with clay hands on flint gates where clouds and desserts decay. The fat lady came first with the crowds from the ships, taverns, and parks. Vomit was delicately shaking its drums among ..a few little girls of blood who were begging the moon for prote. Who could imagine my sadness? The look on my face was mine, but now isnt me, the naked look o藏书网n my face, trembling for alcohol and laung incredible ships through the anemones of the piers. I protect myself with this look that flows from waves where no dawn would go, I, poet without arms, lost in the vomiting multitude, with no effusive horse to shear the thick moss from my temples. The fat lady went first and the crowds kept looking for pharmacies where the bitter tropics could be found. Only when a flag went up and the first dogs arrived did the ey rush to the railings of the boardwalk. Federico García Lorca Las Seis Cuerdas Las Seis Cuerdas..t> La guitarra, hace llorar a los sueños. El sollozo de las almas perdidas, se escapa por su boca redonda. Y o la tarántula teje.. una grarella para cazar suspiros, que flotan en su negro aljibe de madera. Federico García Lorca>.. Little Viennese Waltz Little Viennese Waltz In Vienna there are ten little girls, a shoulder for death to cry on, and a forest of dried pigeons. There is a fragment of tomorrow in the museum of winter frost. There is a thousand-windowed dance hall. Ay, ay, ay, ay! Take this >lose-mouthed waltz. Little waltz, little waltz, little waltz, of itself of death, and of brandy that dips its tail in the sea. I love you, I love you, I love you, with the armchair and the book of death, down the melancholy hallway, in the iriss darkened garret, Ay, ay, ay, ay! Take this broken-waisted waltz. In Vienna there are four mirrors in whiouth and the ehcoes play. There is a death for piano that paints little boys blue. There are beggars on the roof. There are fresh garlands of tears. Ay, ay, ay, ay! Take this waltz that dies in my arms. Because I love you, I love you, my love, iic where the children play, d..reaming a lights of Hungary through th>e he balmy afternoon, seeing sheep and irises of snow through the dark silence of your forehead Ay, ay, ay, ay! Take this " I will always love you" waltz In Vien藏书网na I will dah you in a e with a rivers head. See how the hyaths line my banks! I will leave my mouth between ys, my soul in a photographs and lilies, and in the dark wake of your footsteps, my love, my love, I will have to leave violin and grave, the waltzing ribbons Federico García Lorca Muerte De Antoñito El Camborio Muerte De Antoñito El Camborio Voces de muerte sonaron cerca del Guadalquivir. Voces antiguas que cer voz de clavel varonil. Les clavó sobre las botas mordiscos de jabalí. En la lucha daba saltos jabonados de delfín. Baño sangre enemiga su corbata carmesí, pero eran cuatro puñales y tuvo que sucumbir. do las estrellas clavan rejones al agua gris, do los erales sueñan verónicas de alhelí, voces de muerte sonaron cerca del Guadalquivir. Antonio Torres Heredia, Camboriobbr>?９9liｂ? de dura , moreno de verde luna, voz de clavel varonil: ?quién te ha quitado la vida cerca del Guadalquivir? Mis cuatro primos Heredias hijos de Benamejí. Lo que en otros no envidiaban, ya lo envidiaban en mí. Zapatos color to, medallon..es de marfil, y este cutis amasado aceituna y jazmín. ?Ay Antoñito el Camborio, digno de una Emperatriz! Acuérate de la Virgen porqu?９9ｌiｂ.e vas a morir. ?Ay Federico García, llama a la Guardia Civil! Ya mi talle se ha quebrado o caña de maíz. Tres golpes de sauvo y se murió de perfil. Viva moneda que nunca se volverá a repetir. Un ángel marchoso pone su cabeza en un p;iacute;n. Otros de rubor sado, endieron un dil. Y do los cuatro primos llegan a Benamejí, voces de muerte cesaron cerca del Guadalquivir. Federico García Lorca Murió Al Amanecer Murió Al Amanecer Noche de cuatro lunas y un solo árbol, una s..t>ola sombra y un solo páj..aro. Busco 藏书网en mi e las huellas de tus labios. El manantial besa al viento sin toca.99ｌｉｂ.rlo. Llevo el No que me diste, en la palma de la mano, o un limón de cera casi blanco. Noche de cuatro lunas y un solo árbol, En la punta de una aguja, está mi amirando! Federico García Lorca Nocturnos De La Ventana Noos De La Ventana 1 Alta va la luna. Bajo corre el viento. (Mis largas miradas, exploran el cielo.) Luna sobre el agua, Luna bajo el viento. (Mis cortas miradas, exploran el suelo.) Las voces de dos niñas venían. Sin el esfuerzo, de la luna del agua, me fuí a la del cielo. 2 Un brazo de la noche entra por mi ventana. Un gran brazo moreno pulseras de agua. Sobre un cristal azul jugaba al río mi alma. Los instantes heridos por el reloj... pasaban. 3 Asom藏书网o la cabeza por mi ventana, y veo cómo qu藏书网iere cortarla la cuchilla del viento. Ea guillotina invisible, yo he puesto las cabezas sin ojos de todos mis deseos. Y un 9９liｂ?olor de limón llenó el instante inmenso, mientras se vertía en flor de gasa el viento. 4 Al estanque se le ha muerto hoy una niña de agua. Está fuera del estanque, sobre el suelo amortajada. De la cabeza a sus muslos un pez la cruza, llamándola. El viento le diiña” mas no puede despertarla. El estaiene suelta su cabellera de algas y al aire sus grises tetas estremecidas de ranas. Dios te salve. Rezaremos a ra Señora de Agua por la niña del 藏书网estanque muerta bajo las manzanas. Yo luego pondré a su lado dos pequeñas calabazas para que se tenga a flote, ?ay! sobre la mar salada. Federico García Lorca Paisaje Paisaje E?９９ｌib?l campo de olivos se abre y se cierra o un abanico. Sobre el olivar hay un cielo hundido y una lluvia oscura de luceros fríos. Tiembla junco y penumbra a la orilla del río. Se riza el aire gris. Los olivos, están cargados de gritos. Una bandada de pájaros cautivos, qu?e mueven sus larguísimas colas en lo sombrío. Federico García Lorca Piccolo Valzer Viennese Piccolo Valzer Viennese A Vienna ci sono dieci ragazze, una spalla dove piange la morte e un bosco di be disseccate. frammento del mattino nel museo della brina. Cè un salone ille vetrate. Ahi! Ahi! Ahi! Ahi! Prendi questo valzer la bocca chiusa. Questo valzer, questo valzer, questo valzer, di sì, di morte e di ac che si bagna la coda nel mare. Io ti amo, io ti amo, io ti amo la poltrona e il libro morto, nel malinico corridoio, nelloscura soffitta del giglio, nel nostro letto della luna, nella danza che sogna la tartaruga. Ahi! Ahi! Ahi! Ahi! Prendi questo valzer dalla spezzata tura. A Vienna ci sono quattro specchi, vi gioo la tua bocca e gli echi. Cè una morte per pianoforte che tinge dazzurro i giovanotti. endichi sui terrazzi. E fresche ghirlande di pianto. Ahi! Ahi! Ahi! Ahi! Prendi questo valzer che spira fra le mie braccia. Perchè io ti amo, ti amo, amore mio, nella soffitta dove gioo i bambini, sognando vecchie luci dUngheria nel mormorio di una sera mite, vedendo agnelli e gigli di neve nelloscuro silenzio delle tue tempie. Ahi! Ahi! Ahi! Ahi! Prendi questo valzer del "Ti amo per sempre". A Vienna ballerò te un e che abbia la testa di fiume. Guarda queste mie rive di giati! Lascerò la mia bocca tra le tue gambe, la mia anima in foto e fiordalisi, e nelle onde oscure del tuo passo io voglio, amore mio, amore mio, lasciare, violino e sepolcro, i nastri del valzer. English Translation Little Viennese Waltz In Vienna there are ten little girls a shoulder for death to cry on and a forest of dried pigeons. There is a fragment of tomorrow in the museum of winter frost. There is a thousand-windowed dance hall. Ay, ay, ay, ay! Take this outhed waltz. Little waltz, little waltz, little waltz, of itself, of death, and of brandy that dips its tail in the sea. I love you, I love you, I love you, with the armchair and the book of death down the melancholy hallway, in the iriss dark garret, in our bed that was ohe moons bed, and in that dahe turtle dreamed of. Ay, ay, ay, ay! Take this broken-waisted waltz In Vienna there are four mirrors in whiouth and the echoes play. There is a death for piano that paints the little boys blue. There are beggars on the roof. There are fresh garlands of bbr>?tears. Aye, ay, ay, ay! Take this waltz that dies in my arms. Because I love you, I love you, my love, iic where children play, dreaming a lights of Hungary through the he balmy afternoon, seeing sheep and irises of snow through the dark silence of your forehead. Ay, ay, ay ay! Take this "I ?will always love you" waltz. In Vienna I will dah you in a e with a rivers head. See how the hyaths line my banks! I will leave my mouth between ys, my soul in photographs and lilies, and in the dark wake of your footsteps, my love, my love, I will have to leave violin and grave, the waltzing ribbons. Federico García Lorca Preciosa Y El Aire Preciosa Y El Aire Su luna de pergamino Preciosa todo viene por un anfibio sendero de cristales y laureles. El silencio sirellas, huyendo del soe, cae donde el mar bate y ta su noche llena de peces. En los picos de la sierra los carabineros duermen guardando las blancas torres donde viven los ingleses. Y los gitanos del agua levantan por distraerse, glorietas de caracolas y ramas de pino verde. Su luna de pergamino Preciosa todo viene. Al verla se ha levantado el viento que nunca duerme. San Cristobalón desnudo, lleno de lenguas c?elestes, mira a la niña todo una dulce gaita ausente. Niña, deja que levante tu vestido para verte. Abre en mi dedos antiguos la rosa azul de tu vientre. Preciosa tira el pandero y corre sienerse. El viento-hombrón la persigue una espada caliente. Frunce su rumor el mar. Los olivos palide. tan l>as flautas de umbría y el liso gong de la nieve. ?Preciosa, corre, Preciosa, que te coge el viento verde! Preciosa, corre, Preciosa! ?Míralo por donde viene! Sátiro de estrellas bajas sus lenguas relutes. Preciosa, llena 藏书网de miedo, entra en la casa que tiene, más arriba de los pinos, el cónsul de los ingleses. Asustados por los gritos tres carabineros viene, sus negras capas ceñidas y los gorros en las sienes. El inglés da a la gitana un vaso de tibia leche, y una copa de ginebra que Preciosa no se bebe. Y mientras ta, llorando su aventura a aquella gente, en las tejas de pizarra el viento, furioso, muerde. Federico García Lorca Romance De La Luna Romance De La Luna Hi There! I see youre enjoying the site, and just wao extend an invitiation to register for our free site. The members of oldpo?t>etry strive to make this a fun place to learn and share - hope you join us! - Kevin Federico García Lorca Romance Sonámbulo Romanp;aacute;mbulo English Translation Green, how I want you green. Green wind. Green branches. The ship out on the sea and the horse on the mountain. With the shade around her waist she dreams on her baly, green flesh, her hair green, with eyes of cold silver. Green, how I want you green. Uhe gypsy moon, all things are watg her and she ot see them. Green, how I want you green. Big hoar?9９ｌｉｂ?frost stars e with the fish of shadow that opens the road of dawn. The fig tree rubs its wind with the sandpaper of its branches, and the forest, ing cat, bristles its brittle fibers. But who will e? And from where? She is still on her baly green flesh, her hair green, dreaming iter sea. --My friend, I want to trade my horse for her house, my saddle for her mirror, my knife for her bla. My friend, I e bleeding from the gates of Cabra. --If it were possible, my boy, Id help you fix that trade. But now I am not I, nor is my house now my house. --My friend, I want to die detly in my bed. Of iron, if thats possible, with blas of fine chambray. Dont you see the wound I have from my chest u?99lｉｂ?p to my throat? --Your white shirt has grown thirsy dark brown roses. Your blood oozes and flees a round the ers of your sash. But now I am not I, nor is my house now my house. --Let me climb up, at least, up to the high balies; Let me climb up! Let me, up to the green balies. Railings of the moon through which the water rumbles. Now the two friends climb up, up to the high balies. Leaving a trail of blood. Leaving a trail of teardrops. Tin bell vines were trembling on the roofs. A thousand crystal tambourines struck at the dawn light. Green, how I want you green, green wind, green branches. The two friends climbed up. The stiff wi in their mouths, a straaste of bile, of mint, and of basil My friend, where is she--tell me-- where is your bitter girl? How many times she waited for you! How many times would she wait for you, cool face, black hair, on this green baly! Over the mouth of the cistern the gypsy girl was swinging, green flesh, her hair green, with eyes of cold silver. An icioon holds her up above the water. The night became intimate like a little plaza. Drunken "Guardias Civiles" were pounding on the door. Green, how I want you green. Green wind. Green branches. The ship out on the sea. And the horse on the mountain. Translated by William Logan inal Spanish la sombra en la tura ella sueña en sus baranda, verde e, pelo verde, ojos de fría plata. Verde que te quiero verde. Bajo la luna gitana, las cosas la están mirando y ella no puede mirarlas. Verde que te quiero verde. Grandes estrellas de escarcha, vienen el pez de sombra que abre el o del alba. La higuera ??frota su viento la lija de sus ramas, y el monte, gato garduño, eriza sus pitas agrias. ?Pero quién vendrá? ?Y por dónde...? Ella sigue en su baranda, verde e, pelo verde, soñando en la mar amarga. padre, quiero cambiar mi caballo por su casa, mi montura por su espejo, mi cuchillo por su manta. padre, vengo sangrando, desde los puertos de Cabra. Si yo pudiera, mocito, este trato se cerraba. Pero yo ya no soy yo, Ni mi casa es ya mi casa. padre, quiero morir detemente en mi cama. De acero, si puede ser, las sábanas de holanda. ?No ves la herida que tengo desde el pecho a la garganta? Trestas rosas morenas lleva tu pechera blanca. Tu sangre rezuma y huele alrededor de tu faja. Pero yo ya no soy yo. Ni mi casa es ya mi casa. Dejadme subir al menos hasta las altas barandas, ?dejadme subir!, dejadme hasta las verdes barandas. Barandales de la luna por doumba el agua. Ya suben los dos padres hacia las altas barandas. Dejando un rastro de sangre. Dejando un rastro de lágrimas. Temblaban en los tejados farolillos de hojalata. Mil panderos de cristal, herían la madrugada. Verde que te quiero verde, verde viento, verdes ramas. Los dos padres subieron. El largo viento, dejaba en la bo raro gusto de hiel, de menta y de albahaca. ?padre! ?Dóá, dime? ?Dóá tu niña amarga? ?Cuántas veces te esperó! ?Cuántas veces te esperara, cara fresegro pelo, ea verde baranda! Sobre el rostro del aljibe se mecía la gitana. Verde e, pelo verde, ojos de fría plata. Un carábano de luna la sostiene sobre el agua. La noche se puso íntima o una pequeña plaza. Guardias civiles borrachos en la puerta golpeaban. Federico García Lorca? Romance Sonambulo Romanbulo Green, how I want you green. Green wind. Green branches. The ship out on the sea and the horse on the mountain. With the shade around her waist she dreams on her baly, green flesh, her hair green, with eyes of cold silver. Green, how I want you green. Uhe gypsy moon, all things are watg her and she ot see them. Green, how I want you green. Big hoarfrost stars e with the fish of shadow that opens the road of dawn. The fig tree rubs its wind with the sandpaper of its branches, and the forest, ing cat, bristles its brittle fibers. But who will e? And from where? She is still on her baly green flesh, her hair green, dreaming iter sea. --My friend, I want to trade my horse for her house, my saddle for her mirror, my knife for her bla. My friend, I e bleeding from the gates of Cabra. --If it were possible, my boy, Id help you fix that trade. But now I am not I, nor is my house now my house. --My friend, I want to die detly in my bed. Of iron, if thats possible, with blas of fine chambray. Dont you see the wound I have from my chest up to my throat? --Your white shirt has grown thirsty dark brown roses. Your blood oozes and flees around the ers of your sash. But now I am not I, nor is my house now my house. --Let me climb up, at least, up to the high balies; Let me climb up! Let me, up to the green balies. 45 Railings of the moon through which the water rumbles. Now the two friends climb up, up to the high balies. L９９lｉb.eaving a trail of blood. Leaving a trail of teardrops. Tin bell vines were trembling on the roofs. A thousand crystal tambourines struck at the dawn light. Green, how I want you green, green wind, green branches. The two friends climbed up. The stiff wi in their mouths, a straaste of bile, of mint, and of basil My friend, where is she--tell me-- where is your bitter girl? How many times she waited for you! How many times would she wait for you, cool face, black hair, on this green baly! Over the mouth of the cistern the gypsy girl was swinging, green flesh, her hair green, with eyes of cold silver. An icioon holds her up above the water. The night became intimate like a little plaza. Drunken &qbbr>99ｌｉb?uot;Guardias Civiles" were pounding on the door. Green, how I want you green. Green wind. Green branches. The ship out on the sea. And the horse on the mountain. Federico García Lorca?９９lib? Saturday Paseo: Adelina Saturday Paseo: Adelina es do not grow in the sea her is there love in Sevilla. You in Dark and the I the sun thats hot, loan.. me your parasol. Ill wear my jealous refle, juice of lemon and lime- a藏书网nd your words, your sinful little words- will swim around awhile. es do not grow in the sea, Ay, love! And there is no love in Se..villa! Federico García Lorca9９lib? Serenata Serenata The night soaks itself along the shore of the river and in Lolitas breasts the branches die of love. The branches die of love. he night sings above the bridges of March. Lolita bathes her body with salt water and roses. The branches die of love. The night藏书网 of anise and silver shines over藏书网 the rooftops. Silver of streams and mirror藏书网s Anise of your white thighs. The branches die of love. Federico García Lorca.. Soneto Soo Largo espectro de plata ovida el viento de la noche suspirando, 藏书网abrió ano gris mi vieja herida y se alejó: yo estaba deseando. Llaga de amor que me dará la vida perpetua sangre y pura luz brotando. Grieta en que Filomela enmudecida tendrá bosque, dolor y nido blando. ?Ay qué dulce rumor en mi cabeza! Me tenderé junto a la flor sencilla donde flota sin alma tu belleza. Y el agua errante se pondrá amarilla, mientras corre mi sangre en la maleza mojada y olorosa de la orilla. Federico García Lorca Sonnet of the Sweet Complaint So of the Sweet plaint Never let me lose the marvel of your statu藏书网e-like eyes, or the at the solitary rose of your bre９９ｌib?ath play cheek at night. I am afraid of being, on this shore, a brarunk, and what I mret 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, and adorn the branches of your river with leaves of my estranged Autumn. Federico García Lorca The Faithless Wife The Faithless Wife So I took her to the river believing she..t> was a maiden, but she already had a husband. It was on St. James night and almost as if I was obliged to. The lanter out and the crickets lighted up. In the farthest street ers I touched her sleeping breasts and they opeo me suddenly like spikes of hyath. The starch of her petticoat sounded in my ears like a piece of silk rent by ten knives. Without silver light on their foliage the trees had grown larger and a horizon of dogs barked very far from the river. Past the blackberries, the reeds and the hawthorne underh her cluster of hair I made a hollow in the earth I took off my tie, she too off her dress. I, my belt with the revolver, She, her four bodices. Nor nard nor mother-o’-pearl have skin so fine, nor does glass with silver shih such brilliance. Her thighs slipped away from me like startled fish, half full of fire, half full of cold. That night I ran on the best of roads mounted on a nacre mare without bridle stirrups. As a man, I won’t repeat the th.9９ｌｉｂ.ings she said to me. The light of ..uanding has mad藏书网e me more discreet. Smeared with sand and kisses I took her away from the river. The swords of the lilies battled with the air. I behaved like what I am, like a prypsy. I gave her a large sewing basket, of straw-colored satin, but I did not fall in love for although she had a husband she told me she was a maiden when I took her to the river. Federico García Lorca The Gypsy and the Wind The Gypsy and the Wind Playing her part moon Precosia es along a watery path of laurels and crystal lights. The starless silence, fleeing from her rhythmic tambourine, falls where the sea whips and sings, his night filled with silvery swarms. High atop the mountain peaks the sentinels are weeping; they guard the tall white towers of the English sulate. And g..ypsies of the water for their pleasure erect little castles of ch shells and arbors of greening pine. Playing her part moon Precosia es. The wind sees her and rises, the wind that never slumbers. Naked Saint Christopher swells, watg the girl as he plays with tongues of celestial bells on an invisible bagpipe. Gypsy, let me lift your skirt and have a look at you. Open in my a fingers the blue rose of your womb. Precosia throws the tambourine and runs away in terror. But the virile wind pursues her with his breathing and burning sword. The sea darkens and roars, while.he olive trees turn pale. The flutes of darkness sound, and a muted gong of the snow. Precosia, run, Precosia! Or the green wind will catch you! Precosia, run, Precosia! And look how fast he es! A satyr of low-born stars with their long and glistening tongues. Precosia, filled with fear, now makes her way to that house beyond the tall green pines where the English sul lives. Alarmed by the anguished cries, three riflemen e running, their black capes tightly drawn, as dowheir brow. The Englishman gives the gypsy a glass of tepid milk and a shot of Holland gin which Precosia does not drink. And while she tells them, weeping, of her strange adventure, the wind furiously gnashes against the slate roof tiles. Federico García Lorca The Little Mute Boy The Little Mute Boy The litle?９９ｌib? boy was looking for his voice. (The King of the c..rickets had it.) In a drop of water the little boy was looking for his voice. I do not want it for speaking with; I will ma??ke a ring of it so that he may wear my silence on his little finger. In a drop of water the little boy was looking for his voice. (The captive voice, far away. Put on a cricket clothes.) Federico García Lorca?? Weeping Weepingbbr> Weeping, I go dowreet Grotesque, without solution With the sadness of o And Quixote. Redeeming Infinite impossiblities With the rhythm of th>e clock. Federico García Lorca天涯在线书库《www.tianyabook.com》