Federico García Lorca
Before The Dawn
But like love
Upon the green night,
the piercing saetas
leave traces of warm
The keel of the moon
breaks through purple clouds
and their quivers
fill with dew.
Ay, but like love
Gacela Of The Dark Death
I want to sleep the dream of the apples,
to withdraw from the tumult of cemetries.
I want to sleep the dream of that child
who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas.
I don't want to hear again that the dead do not lose their blood,
that the putrid mouth goes on asking for water.
I don't want to learn of the tortures of the grass,
nor of the moon with a serpent's mouth