LLAGAS DE AMORTHE WOUNDS OF LOVE
Federico García Lorcatrans. Merryn Williams
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 that devours.
This grey landscape that surrounds me.
This obsession that torments me.
Anguish of heaven, world and hours.

This sobbing of the blood, draped round
a broken lyre, a slippery brand.
This sea which pounds me with its weight.
This scorpion dwelling in my heart.

Are all love's garland, and a bed,
where, without sleep, I try to rally,
and dream, amid the ruins, of your presence.

And though I seek the height of prudence
give me your heart, a spread-out valley
of hemlock and desire for bitter fruit.

Click here 1 for another translation of this poem.

Trans. copyright © Merryn Williams 1992 - publ. Bloodaxe Books and University of Durham.


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