| LLAGAS DE AMOR | THE WOUNDS OF LOVE |
| Federico García Lorca | trans. John Kerr |
|
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 brilliant light and fire which devour. This grey expanse by which I am surrounded. This sorrow which on one idea is founded. This agony of heaven, world and hour. These tears of blood with which is dressed a lyre silent still, a torch of lust. This sea of which I feel the thrust. This scorpion which in my heart makes its nest. They are love's garland, and the wounded's rest, where, sleepless, I create you in a dream amongst the ruins of my crushed-in breast; and though I seek discretion's height supreme your heart now gives me this vast vale oppressed by passion's bitter skill, where hemlocks teem. |
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Copyright © Herederos de Federico García Lorca.
Trans. copyright © John Kerr and Herederos de Federico García Lorca - publ. University of Durham.
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