Panj &233; asr (2003)

Ξ April 2nd, 2008 | → 0 Comments | ∇ Uncategorized |

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    At five in the afternoon.
    It was exactly five in the afternoon.
    A boy brought the white sheet
    at five in the afternoon.
    A frail of lime ready prepared
    at five in the afternoon.
    The rest was death, and death alone.


    The bull does not know you, nor the fig tree,
    nor the horses, nor the ants in your own house.
    The child and the afternoon do not know you
    because you have dead forever.

    The shoulder of the stone does not know you
    nor the black silk, where you are shuttered.
    Your silent memory does not know you
    because you have died forever

    The autumn will come with small white snails,
    misty grapes and clustered hills,
    but no one will look into your eyes
    because you have died forever.

    Because you have died for ever,
    like all the dead of the earth,
    like all the dead who are forgotten
    in a heap of lifeless dogs.

    Nobady knows you. No. But I sing of you.
    For posterity I sing of your profile and grace.
    Of the signal maturity of your understanding.
    Of your appetite for death and the taste of its mouth.
    Of the sadness of your once valiant gaiety.

    (from Lament for Ignacio Sanchez Mejias by Federico GarcĂ­a Lorca)


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