Federico García Lorca Quotes

والآن، لا أنا أنا
ولا البيت بيتي

The round silence of night,
one note on the stave
of the infinite.

Ripe with lost poems,
I step naked into the street.
The blackness riddled
by the singing of crickets:
sound,
that dead
will-o'-the-wisp,
that musical light
perceived
by the spirit.

A thousand butterfly skeletons
sleep within my walls.

A wild crowd of young breezes
over the river.

- Hour of Stars (1920)

As I was not worried about being, born, I don't worry about dying.

I am the immense shadow of my tears

انسان بدون آزادی چیست؟

‎آه ماریانا به من بگو
‎به من بگو چگونه می‌توانم دوستت بدارم
‎اگر که آزاد نباشم، به من بگو
‎چگونه دلم را پیشکش تو کنم
...‎اگر که از آن من نباشد

But hurry, let's entwine ourselves as one, our mouth broken, our soul bitten by love, so time discovers us safely destroyed.

La tierra es un planeta mediocre, pero hay que ayudar a la civilización

به هر حال باید خدایی وجود داشته باشه . هر قدر هم که کوچیک باشه. تا صاعقه‌رو رو مردایی که نطفه‌ی گندیده‌شون شادیِ زمینو به لجن می‌کشه نازل کنه .

یرما-ترجمه احمد شاملو

Porque tú crees que el tiempo cura y que las paredes tapan, y no es verdad, no es verdad.

The dreadful nostalgia for a wasted life,
the fatal feeling that you were born too late,
or the restless hope for an impossible morning
with the nearby restlessness of the flesh's ache

En la tarde lluviosa
mi corazon aprende
la tragedia otonal
que los arboles lleuven.

My silk heart’s
filled with lights,
lost bells,
lilies and bees,
and I’ll go far,
further than these mountains,
further than the seas,
close to the stars
and I’ll say to Christ,
Lord, give me back
the child’s soul I once had

The bull does not know you, nor the fig tree,
nor the horses, nor the ants in your own house.
The child and the afternoon do not know you
because you have died forever. The shoulder of the stone does not know you
nor the black silk on which you are crumbling.
Your silent memory does not know you
because you have died forever. The autumn will come with conches,
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 forgotten
in a heap of lifeless dogs. Nobody knows you. No. But I sing of you.
For posterity I sing of your profile and grace.
Of the signal maturity of your understanding.
Of your appetite for death and the taste of its mouth.
Of the sadness of your once valiant gaiety.

But two has never been a number — because it's only an anguish and its shadow,
it's only a guitar where love feels how hopeless it is,
it's the proof of someone else's infinity,
and the walls around a dead man,
and the scourging of a new resurrection that will never end.

Out in the sky, no one sleeps. No one, no one.
No one sleeps.
In a graveyard far off there is a corpse
who has moaned for three years
because of an arid landscape in his knee;
and that boy they buried this morning 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 down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth
or we climb to the snow's edge with the voices of dead dahlias.
But there is no oblivion; no dream:
only flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths
in a tangle of new veins,
and those who hurt will hurt without rest
and those who are afraid of death will carry it on their shoulders.