So I took her to the river
That night I ran
Federico García Lorca
As a man, I won’t repeat
The light of understanding
I behaved like what I am,
foralthough she had a husband
underneath her cluster of hair
It was on St. James night
shine with such brilliance.
the trees had grown larger
I gave her a large sewing basket,
on the best of roads
The lanterns went out
but she already had a husband.
of straw-colored satin,
believing she was a maiden,
like spikes of hyacinth.
nor does glass with silver
like a proper gypsy.
Without silver light on their foliage
Past the blackberries,
without bridle stirrups.
Smeared with sand and kisses
like startled fish,
In the farthest street corners
the things she said to me.
half full of cold.
when I took her to the river.
like a piece of silk
I took her away from the river.
battled with the air.
sounded in my ears
half full of fire,
mounted on a nacre mare
has made me more discreet.
rent by ten knives.
and they opened to me suddenly
the reeds and the hawthorne
but I did not fall in love
The starch of her petticoat
haveskin so fine,
I made a hollow in the earth
and the crickets lighted up.
she told me she was a maiden
Nor nard nor mother-o’-pearl
barked very far from the river.
I touched her sleeping breasts
She, her four bodices.
she too off her dress.
The Faithless Wife
The swords of the lilies
and almost as if I was obliged to.
I took off my tie,
I, my belt with the revolver,
Her thighs slipped away from me
and a horizon of dogs
