A garland! Quickly! Come before I die!
Weave quickly! Sing and weep for me! And sing!
The January light rotates its ring,
dark shadows suffocate and mystify.
Between your love and mine we bravely try
the air filled with stars and plants that swing,
the moaning anemones that burn and sting,
and lift the whole year with their cry.
So savor the landscape of my fresh wound,
break open gentle rivulets and reeds
and feel my blood on honeyed thighs, attuned
to bitten souls. But hurry, time defeats!
Lips bruised with love, we may be found swooned,
with ruptured hearts that lost the rhythmic beats.
Sonnet of the Garland of Roses F. G. Lorca - translation
© Copyright: Борис Старосельский, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103012300249
Свидетельство о публикации №103012300249
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