|
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
 |
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| A Federico García Lorca Siguiriyas Los ojos de la noche, afilados, negros, cortan las venas de la sierra y surge un río de cuervos. Un grito mudo y rojo se hunde aquí en mi pecho y llena mis sueños de tempestades que arrasan tus besos. Una brisa lóbrega, con un manto oscuro, gimiendo sigue a la luna morena que ya está de luto. Ay, mare de mi alma, dime,¿dónde estás? Escóndeme en tus sollozos ocultos, ahí no me hallarán. La guitarra en llamas derramaba angustia y cantaba una fuerte lluvia fría con su voz de púas. |
To Federico García Lorca Siguiriyas The eyes of the night, So sharp and so black, Cut the veins of the sierra and from it springs A river of crows. A scream, silent and red, Sinks deep here in my chest And fills my dreams with raging tempests That ravage your kisses. A melancholy breeze, Wrapped in a blackish cloak, Moans as it follows the dark-skinned moon Already in mourning. Oh mother, dear to my heart, Where could you possibly be? Conceal me in your secret weeping For there they will not find me. The guitar in flames Overflowed with anguish, And a forceful cold rain was singing With its voice of thorns. |
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| © All rights reserved. No portion of this site may be reproduced without permission from Carayan Press. |
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||