The Poet Tells the Truth F. G. Lorca - translation
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.
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