Poem of the Soleá

Dry land, quiet land of night's immensity. (Wind in the olive groves, wind in the Sierra.) Ancient land of oil lamps and grief. Land of deep cisterns. Land of death without eyes and arrows. (Wind on the roads. Breeze in the poplar groves.) Village Upon a barren hill, a Calvary. Clear water and century-old olive trees. In the narrow streets, men hidden under cloaks, and on the towers the spinning vanes. Forever spinning. Oh, village lost in the Andalucia of tears! Dagger The dagger enters the haert the way plowshares turn over the wasteland. No. Do not cut into me. No. Like a ray of sun, the dagger ignites terrible hollows. No. Do not cut into me. No. Crossroads East wind, a street lamp and a dagger in the heart. The street quivers like tightly pulled string, like a huge, buzzing horsefly. Everywhere, I see a dagger in the heart. Ay! The cry leaves shadows of cypress upon the wind. (Leave me here, in this field, weeping.) The whole world's broken. Only silence remains. (Leave me here, in this field, weeping). The darkened horizon's bitten by bonfires. (I've told you already to leave me here, in this field, weeping.) Surprise He lay dead in the street wit ha dagger in his chest. Nobody knew who he was. How the streep lamp flickered! Mother of god, how the street lamp faintly flickered! It was dawn. Nobody could look up, wide-eyed, into the glare. And he lay dead in the street with a dagger in his chest, and nobody knew who he was. Soleá Wearing black mantillas, she thinks the world is tiny and the heart immense. Wearing black mantillas. She thinks that tender sighs and cries disappear into currents of wind. Wearing black mantillas. The door was left open, and at dawn the entire sky emptied onto her balcony. Ay, yayayayay, wearing black mantillas. Cave From the cave come endless sobbings. (Purple over red.) The gypsy calls forth the distance. (Tall towers and mysterious men.) In an unsteady voice his eyes wander. (Black over red.) And the white-washed cave trembled in gold. (White over red.) Encounter For you and I aren't ready to find each other. You... as you well know. I loved her so much! Follow the narrowest path. I have holes in my hands from the nails. Can't you see how I'm bleeding to death? Don't look back, go slowly, and pray as I do to San Cayetano for you and I aren't ready to find each other. Dawn Bells of Cordoba in the early morning. Bells of Granada at dawn. You are felt by all the girls who weep to the tender, weeping Solea. The girls of upper Andalucia, and of lower. You girls of Spain, with tiny feet and trembling skirts, who've filled the crossroads with crosses. Oh, bells of Cordoba in the early morning, and, oh, the bells of Granada at dawn!