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The poet begs his beloved to write to him
My gut-wrenching love, my death-in-life,
in vain I wait for you to write me a letter,
like a withered flower I think rather than to live
without being me, to lose you would be better.
The air is everlasting; the lifeless stone
neither knows the shade nor shuns the gloom.
The innermost heart doesn’t need the frozen
honey that comes pouring from the moon.
But I suffered for you; ripped my veins,
a tiger and dove wrapped your waist
in a tussle of bites and lilies.
So now fill with words my madness
or let me live in the tranquil
night of my soul, forever in darkness.
English translation by Paul Archer of Lorca's El poeta pide a su amor que le escriba.
For more translations from Lorca's Sonetos del amor oscuro, go to Sonnets of Dark Love. |
