Federico Garcia Lorca

My eyes in 1910

My eyes in 1910 never saw the dead being buried, or the ashen festival of a man weeping at dawn, or the heart that trembles cornered like a sea horse. My eyes in 1910 saw the white wall where girls urinated, the bull's muzzle, the poisonous mushroom, and a meaningless moon in the corners that lit up pieces of dry lemon under the hard black of bottles. My eyes on the pony's neck, in the pierced breast of a sleeping Saint Rose, on the rooftops of love, with whipers and cool hands, in a garden where the cats ate frogs. Attic where old dust gathers statues and moss, boxes keeping the silence of devoured crabs in a place where sleep stumbled onto its reality. There my small eyes. Don't ask me anything. I've seen that things find their void when they search for direction. There is a sorrow of holes in the unpeopled air and in my eyes clothed creatures - undenuded!

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