My head is full of fire
and grief and my tongue
runs wild, pierced
with shards of glass.
Stichwörter: words poetry grief
We're all curious about what might hurt us.
Federico García LorcaHere I want to see those men of hard voice.
Those that break horses and dominate rivers;
those men of sonorous skeleton who sing
with a mouth full of sun and flint.
دلم نمیخواست
دلم نمیخواست یه چیزیو بهت بگم.
تو چشات
دو تا درخت دیوونهی کوچولو دیدم
از هوا، از خنده، از طلا.
اونا تاب میخوردن
دلم نمیخواست
دلم نمیخواست یه چیزیو بهت بگم.
Stichwörter: عشق
شب چار ماه و
یه تکدرخت و
یه سایهی تک
و یه پرندهی تنها.
رو تنم دنبال رد لبات میگردم.
فواره بادو میبوسه
لمسش نمیکنه.
همون «نه» که بم گفتیو
تو کف دستام با خودم میبرم
مثه یه لیموی مومی خیلی سفید
شب چار ماه و
یه درخت تک.
رو نوک یه سوزن
عشق من
میچرخه.
Stichwörter: عشق
Everyone understands the pain that accompanies death,
but genuine pain doesn't live in the spirit,
nor in the air, nor in our lives,
nor on these terraces of billowing smoke.
The genuine pain that keeps everything awake
is a tiny, infinite burn
on the innocent eyes of other systems.
Vamos al rincón oscuro,
donde yo siempre te quiera,
que no me importe la gente,
ni el veneno que nos echa.
Stichwörter: amor querer escapar prejuicio veneno
I sing your restless longing for the statue,
your fear of the feelings that await you in the street.
I sing the small sea siren who sings to you,
riding her bicycle of corals and conches.
But above all I sing a common thought
that joins us in the dark and golden hours.
The light that blinds our eyes is not art.
Rather it is love, friendship, crossed swords.
Variación / Variations"
El remanso de aire
bajo la rama del eco.
El remanso del agua
bajo fronda de luceros.
El remanso de tu boca
bajo espesura de besos.
*
The still waters of the air
under the bough of the echo.
The still waters of the water
under a frond of stars.
The still waters of your mouth
under a thicket of kisses.
Stichwörter: poetry poem kisses mouth
Los cien enamorados
duermen para siempre
bajo la tiera seca.
Andalucía tiene
largos caminos rojos.
Córdoba, olivos verdes
donde poner cien cruces,
que los recuerden.
Los cien enamorados
duermen para siempre.
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