Love of my heart, my pain, my living death,
in vain I am waiting for your letter
and think, with withered blooms, it would be better
to lose myself, to lose your dark address.
The air is immortal. Lifeless mass,
dumb stone in shadows grows absurdly fatter.
My buried heart rejects moonlight to scatter
its frozen honey, wasted in distress.
I suffered you, cut, open up my veins,
a tiger and a dove come from your waist
to fight a duel of lilies, bites and stains.
Send me your words, allow me to replace
with joy the madness where my soul remains,
immersed in darkness, my eternal space.
Sonnet of the Letter F. G. Lorca - translation
© Copyright: Борис Старосельский, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103020500072
Свидетельство о публикации №103020500072
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