“In each thing there is an insinuation of death. Stillness, silence, serenity are all apprenticeships.” SilenceStillnessSerenityApprenticeship Author:Federico Garcia Lorca
“We're all like the little sailor. From the harbors we hear the strains of accordions and the murky soapy noises of the docks, from the mountains we receive the dish of silence that the shepherds eat, but we don't hear more than our own distances. And what distances without end and without doors and without mountains!” LittlesEndsSilenceDoorsMountainDistanceNoiseDishesStrainHarborsSailorShepherdsDocksAccordions Author:Federico Garcia Lorca
“With their souls of patent leather, they come down the road. Hunched and nocturnal, where they breathe they impose, silence of dark rubber, and fear of fine sand.” SoulDarkSilenceFineBreatheSandLeatherDown The RoadRubberPatentsNocturnal Author:Federico Garcia Lorca
“The Little Mute Boy The little boy was looking for his voice. (The king of the crickets had it.) In a drop of water the little boy was looking for his voice. I do not want it for speaking with; I will make a ring of it so that he may wear my silence on his little finger In a drop of water the little boy was looking for his voice. (The captive voice, far away, put on a cricket's clothes.) Translated by William S. Merwin” WantMayLittlesVoiceWaterSilenceBoysKingsClothesFingersRingsFar AwayCricketLittle BoysMuteCaptivesDrop Of Water Author:Federico Garcia Lorca
“The weeping of the guitar begins. The goblets of dawn are smashed. The weeping of the guitar begins. Useless to silence it. Impossible to silence it. It weeps monotonously as water weeps as the wind weeps over snowfields. Impossible to silence it. It weeps for distant things. Hot southern sands yearning for white camellias. Weeps arrow without target evening without morning and the first dead bird on the branch. Oh, guitar! Heart mortally wounded by five swords.” FirstsHeartWaterWhiteSilenceMorningFiveImpossibleWindBirdHotGuitarEveningUselessDawnBranchesSandTargetSouthernYearningWoundedArrowsWeepingCamellias 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
