Federico García Lorcatrans. John Edmunds
Esta luz, este fuego que devora.
Este paisaje gris que me rodea.
Este dolor por una sola idea.
Esta angustia de cielo, mundo y hora.

Este llanto de sangre que decora
lira sin pulso ya, lúbrica tea.
Este peso del mar que me golpea.
Este alacrán que por mi pecho mora.

Son guirnalda de amor, cama de herido,
donde sin sueño, sueño tu presencia
entre las ruinas de mi pecho hundido.

Y aunque busco la cumbre de prudencia,
me da tu corazón valle tendido
con cicuta y pasión de amarga ciencia.
This light, this fire, this quick devouring lime;
This grey and empty landscape that surrounds me;
This torment of one sole idea that hounds me;
This anguish in the heavens, the world and time;

These tears of blood that decorate the strings
Of my mute lyre, bright torch whose flame should light me;
These batterings of a heavy sea that smite me;
This scorpion living in my breast that stings;

These are love's garland, the wounded victim's bed
Where sleepless I dream that with me you remain
Among the ruins of the heart you bled.

I seek the heights of wisdom, but in vain:
Deep in the valley of your heart I'm fed
On hemlock, bitter knowledge bought with pain.

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Copyright © Herederos de Federico García Lorca.
Trans. copyright © John Edmunds and Herederos de Federico García Lorca - publ. University of Durham.

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