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The River Guadalquivir flows between olive- and orange trees. The two rivers of Granada flow down from the snow to the wheat. Ah, love, that went away and never came back! The River Guadalquivir with its ruddy beard. The two rivers of Granada, one tears, the other blood.
Ah, love that went away through the air! For sailing ships Seville has a path to follow; while only sighs row on the waters of Granada. |
La guitarra
Empieza el llanto
De la guitarra.
Se rompen las copas
De la madrugada.
Empieza el llanto
De la guitarra.
Es inútil
Callarla.
Es imposible
Callarla.
Llora monótona
Como llora el agua,
Como llora el viento
Sobre la nevada.
Es imposible
Callarla.
Llora por cosas
Lejanas.
Arena del Sur caliente
Que pide camelias blancas.
Llora flecha sin blanco,
La tarde sin mañana,
Y el primer pájaro muerto
Sobre la rama.
¡Oh guitarra!
Corazón malherido
Por cinco espadas.
The Guitar
The guitar begins
To weep.
Early morning glasses
Shatter.
The guitar begins
To weep.
It’s no use trying
To stop it.
It’s impossible
To stop it.
It weeps monotonously
Like the water weeps,
Like the wind weeps
Over the snowfall.
It’s impossible
To stop it.
It weeps
For distant things.
Warm Southern sand
That asks for white camellias.
It weeps arrow without a target,
The afternoon without morning,
And the first dead bird
Upon the branch.
Oh, guitar!
Heart mortally wounded
By five swords.
The Cry
The ellipse of a cry
runs from hill-top
hill-top.
From the olive trees
it will be a black rainbow
against the blue night.
Ah!
Like a viola bow,
the cry has set the long strings
of the wind vibrating.
Ah!
(The cave people
hold out their candles .)
Ah!
The Silence
Listen, my boy, to the silence.
It is an undulating silence,
a silence
along which valleys and echoes slide
and which bows foreheads
towards the ground.
From Poema de la soleá
Pueblo
- Puñal -
Cueva |
Village
On the bare mountain a Calvary. Clear water and century-old olives. Along the narrow streets masked men, and on the towers weathercocks turning. Forever turning. Ah, lost village, in the Andalusia of lamentations. Dagger
The dagger enters the heart Like the plowshare the unploughed land.
No. Please don't stab me. No.
The dagger, like a sunbeam, lights up the terrible ravines.
No. Please don't stab me. No.
Cave.
From the cave emerge long drawn-out sobs.
(The purple on the red.)
The gypsy conjures up distant lands.
(Tall towers and men of mystery.)
His eyes ride out on his broken voice.
(The black on the red.)
And the whitewashed cave quivers in the gold.
(The white on the red.)
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Seville.
Seville is a tower full of fine archers.
Seville for wounding Cordoba for dying.
A city that ensnares long rythms and interweaves them like labyrinths. Like vines on fire.
Seville for wounding!
Below the arch of the sky, over her clear plain, soars the steady saeta* of her river.
Cordoba for dying!
And skyline crazy, she mixes in her wine the bitterness of St. John and the perfection of Dionysus.
Seville for wounding. Seville for wounding, every time!
Procession
Along the narrow streets come strange unicorns. From what field, from what mythological wood? Closer, now they look like astronomers. Fantastic Merlins and the Ecce Homo, Enchanted Durandarte, Orlando Furioso.
Float
Virgin in the hooped skirt, Virgin of Solitude, open like a huge tulip. In your ship of lights you go on the high tide of the city, among turbid saetas and crystal stars. Virgin in the hooped skirt, you go down the river of the street - to the sea!
Saeta*
Dark-skinned Christ passes from being lily of Judea to carnation of Spain.
Look, here he comes!
Of Spain. Clear, dark sky, sun-baked earth, and riverbeds where the water flows so slowly. Dark-skinned Christ, with his singed locks, prominent cheekbones and white pupils.
Look, there he goes!
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La Lola (from Dos muchachas)
Bajo el naranjo lava pañales de algodón. Tiene verdes los ojos y violeta la voz.
¡Ay, amor, bajo el naranjo en flor!
El agua de la acequia iba llena de sol, en el olivarito cantaba un gorrión.
¡Ay, amor, bajo el naranjo en flor!
Luego, cuando la Lola gaste todo el jabón, vendrán los torerillos.
¡Ay, amor, bajo el naranjo en flor! |
Lola
Under the orange tree she’s washing cotton diapers. Her eyes are green and violet her eyes.
Oh, love, beneath the orange blossoms!
The water in the dike ran full of sunshine. In the little olive grove a sparrow sang.
Oh, love, beneath the orange blossoms!
Then, when Lola uses up all the soap, the bullfighters will come.
Oh, love, beneath the orange blossoms. |
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Conjuro (from Viñetas flamencas) |
Incantation
The hand contorted like a jellyfish blinds the sorrowful eye of the oil lamp.
Ace of Wands.** Scissors in a cross.
Against the white smoke of the incense, it is part mole and part wavering butterfly.
Ace of Wands. Scissors in a cross.
It grasps an invisible heart, can you see it? A heart reflected in the wind.
Ace of Wands. Scissors in a cross.
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Cruz (from Seis caprichos) |
Cross
The cross. (Full stop: end of the road.)
Reflected in the flowing water. (Dot, dot, dot.)
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