Sonnet of the sweet complaint
Don’t let me lose the wondrous sight
of your sculpted eyes, or the way you have
of placing on my cheek at night
the solitary rose of your breath.
I fear being left like a limbless tree
on the shoreline; and even worse
not having for my worm of agony
wood pulp or potter’s clay or flowers.
If you are my buried treasure,
if you are my cross and wet tears,
if I am your dog and you my master,
then don’t let me lose what I’ve won
and adorn the branches of your river
with the leaves of my estranged autumn.
English translation by Paul Archer of Lorca's Soneto de la dulce queja.
For more translations from Lorca's Sonetos del amor oscuro, go to Sonnets of Dark Love.