Federico Garcia Lorca

Gacela of the Bitter Root

There's a bitter root and a world of a thousand terraces. Not even the smallest hand shatters the gate of waters. Where are you going, where, where? There's a sky of a thousand windows - a battle of bruised bees - and there's a bitter root. Bitter. Sore on the sole of the foot, on the inside of the face, and sore in the cool trunk of the freshly cut night. Love, my enemy, bite on your bitter root!

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