Wednesday, 1 January 2020

The poet begs his beloved to write to him

My gut-wrenching love, my death-in-life,
in vain I wait for you to write me a letter,
like a withered flower I think rather than to live
without being me, to lose you would be better.
The air is everlasting; the lifeless stone
neither knows the shade nor shuns the gloom.
The innermost heart doesn’t need the frozen
honey that comes pouring from the moon.
But I suffered for you; ripped my veins,
a tiger and dove wrapped your waist
in a tussle of bites and lilies.
So now fill with words my madness
or let me live in the tranquil
night of my soul, forever in darkness.

                  - Lorca

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