Spanish poet, dramatist and prose writer (1898–1936)
Federico García Lorca (5 June 1898 – 19 August 1936) was a Spanish poet, dramatist, painter, pianist and composer.
From: Wikiquote (CC BY-SA 4.0)
Alternative Names:
García Lorca
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García Lorca, Federico
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G. F. Lorca
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Phenteriko Gkarthia Lorka
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Lorka
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F. García Lorca
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F. G. Lorca
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Lorca
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Federico Garciá Lorca
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Federico del Sagrado Corazón de Jesús García Lorca
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Phederiko Gkarthia Lorka
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Federiḳo Garsiyah Lorḳah
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Federiko Garsii︠a︡ Lorka
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Federico Garcia Lorca
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Frederico Garcia Lorca
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Federico del Sagrado Corazon de Jesus Garcia Lorca
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Garcia Lorca
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F. Garcia Lorca
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Federiko Garsia Lorka
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Federico Carcía Lorca
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Federico Carcia Lorca
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Never let me lose the marvel
of your statue-like eyes, or the accent
the solitary rose of your breath
places on my cheek at night.
I am afraid of being, on this shore,
a branchless trunk, and what I most regret
is having no flower, pulp, or clay
for the worm of my despair.
If you are my hidden treasure,
if you are my cross, my dampened pain,
if I am a dog, and you alone my master,
never let me lose what I have gained,
and adorn the branches of your river
with leaves of my estranged Autumn.
A light which lives on what the flames devour,
a grey landscape surrounding me with scorch,
a crucifixion by a single wound,
a sky and earth that darken by each hour,
a sob of blood whose red ribbon adorns
a lyre without a pulse, and oils the torch,
a tide which stuns and strands me on the reef,
a scorpion scrambling, stinging in my chest — this is the wreath of love, this bed of thorns
is where I dream of you stealing my rest,
haunting these sunken ribs cargoed with grief.
I sought the peak of prudence, but I found
the hemlock-brimming valley of your heart,
and my own thirst for bitter truth and art.
- Stigmata of Love
The night above. We two. Full moon.
I started to weep, you laughed.
Your scorn was a god, my laments
moments and doves in a chain.
The night below. We two. Crystal of pain.
You wept over great distances.
My ache was a clutch of agonies
over your sickly heart of sand.
Dawn married us on the bed,
our mouths to the frozen spout
of unstaunched blood.
The sun came through the shuttered balcony
and the coral of life opened its branches
over my shrouded heart.
- Night of Sleepless Love