[Sonnets of Federico Garcia Lorca]
Sonnet of her Sweet Complaint
I dread to lose the marvel
of your sculpted eyes and the accent
that the solitary rose of your breath
places in my cheek each night.
In pain, I am on the edge of
a trunk without branches; what I regret most
is not having flower, flesh, nor clay
for the worms of my suffering.
If you are my secret treasure,
if you are my cross and dampened pain,
if I am the dog under your rule,
don,t take from me what I once won
then decorate the waters of your river
with the autumn leaves of my alienation.
Flames of Love
This light, this devouring fire,
this placid landscape that surrounds me.
All this pain for one single dream
an anguish of sky, world, and hour.
These cries of blood adorn
my silent lyre, my burning torch.
The weight of the oceans drowns me
in this lifeless place where my heart dwells.
You are a garland of love, a bed of wounds.
Without dream I evoke your presence
among the ruins of my sunken chest.
And though I seek a covered prudence,
you give me your heart a valley of laced
hemlock and bitter passion.