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A desire is in the girl’s bangles: first they will break on his bed then on the threshold of his house. But why on the threshold? Because in the girl there is a woman mourning — who is not yet a widow but a widow to be. The girl’s fear throbs in her veins as far as her bangles The girl’s desire throbs in them The girl’s mourning throbs in them Mourning? Where is the girl’s man for whom mourning runs in her veins for whom desire is in her bangles?
Her man is caught in some other body some other dream sorrow, other tears His every sorrow, dream, tear is beyond the reach of the mourning girl… But the girl is only a girl in her is that primal innocence, madness, death, whose punishment she will give to that man one day when she will break her bangles…
Federico García Lorca Abandoned Church (Ballad of the Great War)
I had a son whose name was John.
I had a son.
Friday of All Soul’s he was lost in the arches.
I saw him playing on the uppermost steps of the Mass
and he lowered a tin bucket into the heart of the priest.
I pounded on the coffins. My son! My son! My son!
I pulled a hen’s leg from behind the moon and soon
Federico García Lorca City without a Dream (Nocturnal of Brooklyn Bridge)
No one sleeps by the sky. Nobody, nobody. No one sleeps. The creatures of the moon smell and go up around their cabins. The alive iguanas will come to bite the men who do not dream and the one that flees with the broken heart will find by the corners the incredible still crocodile under the tender protest of the stars.
No one sleeps by the world. Nobody, nobody. No one sleeps.
There is a corpse in the furthermost cemetery that complains three years because it has a dry landscape in the knee; and the boy who was buried this morning cried so much that there was a necessity to call the dogs to shut him up.
The dream is not life. Alert! Alert! Alert! We fall by the stairs to eat the humid Earth or raised the edge of the snow with the dead choir of the dahlias.
But there is no forgetfulness, nor dream: meat alive. The kisses tie the mouths in a maze of recent veins
To those who still keep tracks from claws and heavy a shower, to that boy who cries because he does not know the invention of the bridge or to that corpse has nothing but his head and a shoe, it is necessary to take them to the wall where iguanas and snakes await, where the dentures of the bear await,
where the mummified hand of the boy await and the skin of the camel rises with a violent blue chill.
No one sleeps by the sky. Nobody, nobody. No one sleeps. But if somebody closes his eyes, Whip him, mine children, Whip him!
There is a panorama of open eyes and bitter ignited sores.
No one sleeps by the world. Nobody, nobody. I have already said it. No one sleeps. But if somebody at night has an excess of moss in his temples, open the trap doors so that you can see under the moon the false glasses, the poison and the skull of the theaters.
Dana Gelinas Miracle Country (Tuxtla Gutiérrez, Chiapas, 12 p.m.)
Today I inhabit the Día de la Virgen
in whose mercy the more and the less
humble take refuge and day
breaks into the smell of dust and tuberoses.
Bus drivers deck out their machines
as mobile altars
or ambulant motherlands.
The wind of miracles hoists the flag once again,
thirty bolts sewn in silk beneath a sky
that rises them
like a child going over the dates of heroes’ lives
In my country there are beauties that cannot be found here, When musing at night alone, I sense more happiness there, In my country there are palm trees where the sábia sings.
Oh God, don't let me die, Before I get back home, Before I can again find those beauties that are not here, Before I again can see those palm trees where the sábia sings.
Geoffrey Chaucer Here begins the Book of the Tales of Canterbury
When April with his showers sweet with fruit The drought of March has pierced unto the root And bathed each vein with liquor that has power To generate therein and sire the flower; When Zephyr also has, with his sweet breath, Quickened again, in every holt and heath, The tender shoots and buds, and the young sun Into the Ram one half his course has run, And many little birds make melody That sleep through all the night with open eye (So Nature pricks them on to ramp and rage)- Then do folk long to go on pilgrimage, And palmers to go seeking out strange strands, To distant shrines well known in sundry lands. And specially from every shire's end Of England they to Canterbury wend, The holy blessed martyr there to seek Who helped them when they lay so ill and weal