| "Alma Ausente" ~Federico García Lorca |
| No te conoce el toro ni la higuera, ni caballos ni hormigas de tu casa. No te conoce tu recuerdo mudo porque te has muerto para siempre. No te conoce el lomo de la piedra, ni el raso negro donde te destrozas. No te conoce tu recuerdo mudo porque te has muerto para siempre. El otoño vendrá con caracolas, uva de niebla y montes agrupados, pero nadie querrá mirar tus ojos porque te has muerto para siempre. Porque te has muerto para siempre, como todos los muertos de la Tierra, como todos los muertos que se olvidan en un montón de perros apagados. No te conoce nadie. No. Pero yo te canto. Yo canto para luego tu perfil y tu gracia. La madurez insigne de tu conocimiento. Tu apetencia de muerte y el gusto de su boca. La tristeza que tuvo tu valiente alegría. Tardará mucho tiempo en nacer, si es que nace, un andaluz tan claro, tan rico de aventura. Yo canto su elegancia con palabras que gimen y recuerdo una brisa triste por los olivos. | The bull does not know you, nor the fig tree, Nor the horse nor the ants of your own house. The child and the afternoon do not know you because you yourself have died forever. Nor knows you the spine of the stone, Nor the black satin where you destroy yourself. Nor knows you your mute memory because you yourself have died forever. The autumn will come with snails, misty grapes and mountain ranges, but nobody will want to look at your eyes because you yourself have died forever. Because you have died forever, like all the dead of the Earth, like all the dead that forget themselves in the heap of lifeless dogs. Nobody knows you. No. But I sing you. For posterity, I sing your shape and your grace. The celebrated maturity of your wisdom. Your hunger for death and the taste of its mouth. The grief of your once valiant happiness. Late will be born, if ever there is, an Analucian more clear, more rich in adventure. I sing his elegance with words that low and remember a sad breeze through the olive trees. |
