I want to cry in grief, I want you feel
the pain of our love so you will weep
with me, with nightingales, that twist and reap
the dusk with daggers, kisses and with shrill.
My flower murdered and I want to kill
the lone witness, pile into a heap
raw wheat of my lament, to store, to keep
the grains of sweat in barns and under seal.
I wish no end, I wish our lives be strung
forever singing love, forever bask
beneath old moon, beneath the withered sun.
For what you do not give and I don’t ask,
will be a gift to death, will be among
the shadows, wasted flesh and pale masks.
The Poet Tells the Truth F. G. Lorca - translation
© Copyright: Борис Старосельский, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103013000105
Свидетельство о публикации №103013000105
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