Tag Archives: lorca

Later On (a Lorca ‘translation’)

Time, to be honest,
so much like crying
when the last hour comes,
inconsolable in its own silence.

So off with the boneclothes
surrounding the heart
with all its sickness.

Waiting for winds laden
with unpublished landscapes.

Bloom, bloom with running
and ineffable dresses,
other bones and other hearts
stacked broad with minutes
that were so honestly lost
behind, unheard when clattered.

Oceanfront winds and flotsam
dying to be eternal.

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The Audience, Open (a Lorca ‘translation’)

Every morning, start with

a dead star in your mouth.

See the child in the mirror,

covered in rainbows of grey,

put behind him a nest

of summer silence.

Listen to him, his singing

of the night spring,

he reminds of its dew,

and so then the dead star,

its echoflesh mirage,

your day standing still with brightness.