Federico García Lorcatrans. James Flint
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.
I'm swallowed by this light, by this fire,
By this grey landscape that's my crime,
By the endless pain of one idea,
By this anguish that's heaven, earth and time,

By the drip drip drip of blood's lament
Across rhythmless strings, thus kindling a flame,
By the maelstrom sea in its torment,
By the scorpion that is my heart's game;

These my garland of love, on which I lie wounded,
And where without dreams, I dream of your presence
Plumbing the depths that my lone heart has sounded.

And though I might crave the summits of prudence
In the vale of your passion such thoughts are dumbfounded
Laid low by hemlock and a lust that's dark science.

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

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