Federico Garcia Lorca


Just your hot heart, nothing more. My Paradise, a field, no nightingales, no strings, a river, discrete, and a little fountain. Without the spurs, of the wind, in the branches, without the star, that wants to be a leaf. An enormous light that will be the flow of the Other, in a field of broken gazes. A still calm where our kisses, sonorous circles of echoes, will open, far-off. And your hot heart, nothing more.

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