![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMoAO2cD00bqxApUw28iEKUJA71aJ6x6jVOuWBK9o_L5KhspB2xHxSpdDEEQz8DMQrVlmiaQIEDZnl0AuCkRlU0-PDULxyOtmzrkuYps2-oKjwUBU3l1l5reTV0hLUSJRR8cPY0H23Skqi/s400/tree-al-man.jpg)
Yannis Stavrou, Man and Tree, oil on canvas
Federico Garcia Lorca
If my hands could defoliate
If my hands could defoliate
I pronounce your name
on dark nights,
when the stars come
to drink on the moon
and sleep in tufts
of hidden fronds.
And I feel myself hollow
of passion and music.
Crazy clock that sings
dead ancient hours.
I pronounce your name,
in this dark night,
and your name sounds
more distant than ever.
More distant that all stars
and more doleful than a calm rain.
Will I love you like then
ever again? What blame
has my heart?
When the mist dissipates,
what other passion may I expect?
Will it be calm and pure?
If only my fingers could
defoliate the moon!
No comments:
Post a Comment