Please do not ever let me lose this sight -
your sculptured eyes, an accent of a rose
of your light breath, so marvelous, so close,
upon my cheek, placed by the lavish night.
I am afraid of standing outside,
a branchless tree for anyone to loathe,
to have no flowers, leaves, no spring, no growth,
consumed by worms of anger, worn, denied.
And if you are my cross, my lasting pain,
my hidden treasure, never to be found,
please, do not let me lose my precious gain.
My leaves are fallen, I have lost all count
of what is gone, is flown away in vain.
Please let my autumn leaves remain around.
Sonnet of the Sweet Complaint F. G. Lorca - translation
© Copyright: Борис Старосельский, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103012500166
Свидетельство о публикации №103012500166
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