Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías
The Poetry of Federico García Lorca 作者：加西亚·洛尔迦 投票推荐 加入书签 留言反馈
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<strong>Lament fnacio Sánchez Mejías</strong><strong>1. Cogida ah</strong>
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.</a>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!
<strong>2. The Spilled Blood</strong>
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!
<strong>3. The Laid Out Body</strong>
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!
<strong>4. Absent Soul</strong>
The bull does not know you, nor the fig t<tt>99lｉb.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></a> 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></abbr>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.
<strong>Federico García Lorca</strong>
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