(perhaps he didn’t master
his geometry)
The poor youth was forsaken.
In the morning, at ten,
his heart was overtaken
by broken wings and plans.
One word on lips that starves,
one word that brings torments,
when he took off his gloves
soft ash fell from his hands.
The tower white as chalk
appeared and this tower
was him, he saw the clock
was testing his willpower.
He saw his shadow bent
on the silk divan.
Stiff, geometrical hand
smashed mirrors, smashed again.
And then the shadows of doom
invaded his quiet room.
Suicide F. G. Lorca - translation
© Copyright: Борис Старосельский, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103022200092
Свидетельство о публикации №103022200092
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