This light, this fervent fire that devours.
This grey landscape surrounding with fear.
This pain that comes from one, just one idea.
This anguish of the sky, this Earth in sores.
This dark lament of blood, this rising chorus
that contradicts a pulseless lyre, a cheer
of swollen sea that beats into my ear.
The scorpion on my breast, persistent borers.
All are the wrath of love, the restless bed
where sleepless I am dreaming that we meet
and feel the ruins of my chest, misled
by useless hopes, and helplessly misfit
to reach the summit, finding instead,
with bitter wisdom, deep and horrid pit.
Wounds of Love F. G. Lorca - translation
© Copyright: Борис Старосельский, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103012600148
Свидетельство о публикации №103012600148
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