Carayan Press: Bosquejos/Sketches
A Federico García Lorca

Siguiriyas


Los ojos de la noche,
afilados, negros,
cortan las venas de la sierra y surge
un río de cuervos.

Un grito mudo y rojo
se hunde aquí en mi pecho
y llena mis sueños de tempestades
que arrasan tus besos.

Una brisa lóbrega,
con un manto oscuro,
gimiendo sigue a la luna morena
que ya está de luto.

Ay, mare de mi alma,
dime,¿dónde estás?
Escóndeme en tus sollozos ocultos,
ahí no me hallarán.

La guitarra en llamas
derramaba angustia
y cantaba una fuerte lluvia fría
con su voz de púas.
To Federico García Lorca

Siguiriyas


The eyes of the night,
So sharp and so black,
Cut the veins of the sierra and from it springs
A river of crows.

A scream, silent and red,
Sinks deep here in my chest
And fills my dreams with raging tempests
That ravage your kisses.

A melancholy breeze,
Wrapped in a blackish cloak,
Moans as it follows the dark-skinned moon
Already in mourning.

Oh mother, dear to my heart,
Where could you possibly be?
Conceal me in your secret weeping
For there they will not find me.

The guitar in flames
Overflowed with anguish,
And a forceful cold rain was singing
With its voice of thorns.
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