“Understand one single day fully, so you can love every night.” NightEvery Night Author:Federico Garcia Lorca
“Ever since I got married I've been thinking night and day about whose fault it was, and every time I think about it, out comes a new fault to eat up the old one; but always there's a fault left.” ThinkingNightLeftMarriedFaults Author:Federico Garcia Lorca
“Never let me lose the marvel of your statue-like eyes, or the accent the solitary rose of your breath places on my cheek at night. I am afraid of being, on this shore, a branchless trunk, and what I most regret is having no flower, pulp, or clay for the worm of my despair. If you are my hidden treasure, if you are my cross, my dampened pain, if I am a dog, and you alone my master, never let me lose what I have gained, and adorn the branches of your river with leaves of my estranged Autumn.” IfsEyePainNightLosesDogFlowerMastersRegretDespairRiversCrossesLet MeBreathsRoseTreasureBranchesAutumnShoreCheeksSolitaryAccentsWormsClayStatuesTrunksPulpHidden Treasure Author:Federico Garcia Lorca
“Night of Sleepless Love The night above. We two. Full moon. I started to weep, you laughed. Your scorn was a god, my laments moments and doves in a chain. The night below. We two. Crystal of pain. You wept over great distances. My ache was a clutch of agonies over your sickly heart of sand. Dawn married us on the bed, our mouths to the frozen spout of unstaunched blood. The sun came through the shuttered balcony and the coral of life opened its branches over my shrouded heart.” HeartTwoMomentsPainNightSunBloodBedMoonMarriedMouthsDistanceChainsDawnBranchesSandLaughedAgonyFrozenAcheScornCrystalsDoveLamentClutchFull MoonBalconies Author:Federico Garcia Lorca
“The night below. We two. Crystal of pain. You wept over great distances. My ache was a clutch of agonies over your sickly heart of sand.” HeartTwoPainNightDistanceSandAgonyAcheCrystalsClutch Author:Federico Garcia Lorca
“Hour of Stars (1920) The round silence of night, one note on the stave of the infinite. Ripe with lost poems, I step naked into the street. The blackness riddled by the singing of crickets: sound, that dead will-o'-the-wisp, that musical light perceived by the spirit. A thousand butterfly skeletons sleep within my walls. A wild crowd of young breezes over the river.” LightYoungSpiritNightLostStarsSoundHoursSleepSilenceStepsStreetsWallThousandSingingRiversInfiniteNotesRoundsMusicalCrowdsNakedButterflyCricketBreezeRipeBlacknessSkeletonsWisps Author:Federico Garcia Lorca
“The terrible, cold, cruel part is Wall Street. Rivers of gold flow there from all over the earth, and death comes with it. There, as nowhere else, you feel a total absence of the spirit: herds of men who cannot count past three, herds more who cannot get past six, scorn for pure science and demoniacal respect for the present. And the terrible thing is that the crowd that fills the street believes that the world will always be the same and that it is their duty to keep that huge machine running, day and night, forever.” MenWorldFeelsBelieveRunningEarthPastSpiritNightThreeForeverStreetsDutyHugeWallColdTerriblePureSixFlowRiversGoldMachinesGreedCrowdsAbsenceMaterialismScornTerrible ThingsHerdsDay And NightAvarice Author:Federico Garcia Lorca
“The terrible thing is that the crowd that fills the street believes that the world will always be the same and that it is their duty to keep that huge machine running, day and night, forever. This is what comes of a Protestant morality, that I, as a (thank God) typical Spaniard, found unnerving.” WorldBelieveRunningNightFoundForeverStreetsDutyHugeTerribleMoralityMachinesCrowdsThank GodTypicalTerrible ThingsHerdsDay And NightProtestantsSpaniards Author:Federico Garcia Lorca
“Woodcutter. Cut my shadow from me. Free me from the torment of being without fruit. Why was I born among mirrors? Day goes round and round me. The night copies me in all its stars. I want to live without my reflection. And then let me dream that ants and thistledown are my leaves and my parrots.” WantDreamNightStarsBornCuttingReflectionShadowLet MeMirrorsFruitRoundsCopiesTormentAntsParrots Author:Federico Garcia Lorca
