This blazing light, this devouring fire,
this grey landscape I’ve made mine,
this sorrow centred round one idea,
this anguish of sky, world and time.
This weeping of blood that adorns
an unplucked lyre, the lusty torch,
this weight of the sea that pounds,
this scorpion that dwells in my breast
are all a garland of love, a sickbed
where I lie awake dreaming you are here
among the ruins of my downcast heart.
And though I try hard to be careful
your heart gives me a vale with hemlock spread
and the passion of bitterly knowing all.
FREDERIC GARCIA LORCA