Federico Garcia Lorca

Sonnet of the Wreath of Roses

The wreath, quick, I am dying! Weave it quick now! Sing, and moan, sing! Now the shadow is darkening my throat, and January's light returns, a thousand and one times. Between what needs me, and my needing you, starry air, and a trembling tree. A thickness of windflowers lifts a whole year, with hidden groaning. Take joy from the fresh landscape of my wound, break out the reeds, and the delicate streams, and taste the blood, split, on my thighs of sweetness. But quick! So that joined together, and one, time will find us ruined, with bitten souls, and mouths bruised with love.

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