I am afraid of being, on this shore,
Never let me lose the marvel
Sonnet of the Sweet Complaint
places on my cheek at night.
is having no flower, pulp, or clay
if you are my cross, my dampened pain,
Federico García Lorca
a branchless trunk, and what I most regret
the solitary rose of your breath
and adorn the branches of your river
never letme lose what I have gained,
with leaves of my estranged Autumn.
for the worm of my despair.
if I am adog, and you alone my master,
If you are my hidden treasure,
of your statue-like eyes, or the accent
