passed har sad tongue
How hard with the spurs!
The air, as if mad, leaves his sunken chest,
Oh, hard blood of Ignacio!
And across the ranches,
But now he sleeps without end.
A coffin on wheels is his bed
Of the sadness of your once valiant gaiety.
at five in the afternoon.
How gentle with the sheaves!
Ah, that fatal five in the afternoon!
of a thirsty multiude.
wich will have sweet mists and deep shores,
where his smile was a spikenard
nor the horses, nor the ants in your own house.
lifted their heads.
Now, Ignacio the well born lies on the stone.
I will not see it!
Here I want to see them. Before the stone.
because you have died forever.
Oh, nightingale of his veins!
and we see it being filled with depthless holes.
the tiers of seats, and spills
like all the dead who are forgotten
at five in the afternoon.
open with sure fingers
Here I want to see those men of hard voice.
at five in the afternoon.
Warm the jasmines
and the grey bull ring of dreams
nor heart so true.
that spurt that illuminates
And the bull alone with a high heart!
to see his body without a chance of rest.
and has place on him the head of dark minotaur.
The bass-string struck up
A frail of lime ready prepared
Nobady knows you. No. But I sing of you.
The child and the afternoon do not know you
warms itself on the peak of the herd.
Tell the moon to come,
All is finished. The rain penetrates his mouth.
I want to know from them the way out
What is they saying? A stenching silence settles down.
His eyes did not close
herdsmen of pale mist.
to form a pool of agony
the flower of his skull.
without curving waters and frozen cypresses.
nor the black silk, where you are shuttered.
All is finished. What is happening! Contemplate his face:
Loses itself in the round bull ring of the moon
spilled on the sand,
no glass can cover mit with silver.
an air of secret voices rose,
over a snout of blood
banderillas of darkness!
I want them to show me a lament like a river
How dazzling the fiesta!
The wind carried away the cottonwool
which feigns in its youth a sad quiet bull,
Federico García Lorca
Now the bull was bellowing through his forehead
at five in the afternoon,
I dont want to cover his face with handkerchiefs
1. Cogida and death
The bull does not know you, nor the fig tree,
because you have died forever
Sleep, fly, rest: even the sea dies!
Do not ask me to see it!
with all his death on his shoulders.
The wounds were burning like suns
like all the dead of the earth,
at five in the afternoon.
but no one will look into your eyes
an Andalusian so true, so rich in adventure.
loses itself in the night without song of fishes
with a pure shape which had nightingales
at five in the afternoon.
only bull rings and bull rings and more bull rings without walls.
with willows in the barreras.
to take the body of Ignacio where it looses itself
The autumn will come with small white snails,
What a great torero in the ring!
and the dream bewilders him
nor song nor deluge og white lilies,
Now the moss and the grass
How tender with the dew!
At five in the afternoon.
in a heap of lifeless dogs.
I will not see it!
I will not see it!
no swallows can drink it,
who could compare to him,
of such minute whiteness!
and Love, soaked through with tears of snow,
We are here with a body laid out which fades away,
Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías
that he may get used to the death he carries.
Nobody sings here, nobody weeps in the corner,
and like a marble toroso
3. The Laid Out Body
to avoid being caught by lying stone
at five in the afternoon.
his firm drawn moderation.
bellowed like two centuries
No chalice can contain it,
It was exactly five in the afternoon.
and the bulls of Guisando,
Groups of silence in the corners
The air of Andalusian Rome
with trees formed of tears and ribbons and planets.
Because you have died for ever,
He sought for his beautiful body
death has covered him with pale sulphur
and I remember a sad breeze through the olive trees.
of Ignacio on the sand.
but the dawn was no more.
at five in the afternoon.
The rest was death, and death alone.
at five in the afternoon.
In the distance the gangrene now comes
with a mouth full of sun and flint.
at five in the afternoon.
when he saw the horns near,
Of your appetite for death and the taste of its mouth.
Those that break horses and dominate rivers;
I will not see it!
at five in the afternoon.
When the sweat of snow was coming
No.
Do not ask me to see it!
like a long, dark, sad tongue,
It was five by all the clocks!
I will not see it!
Stone is a forehead where dreames grieve
A boy brought the white sheet
Stone is a shoulder on which to bear Time
Oh, black bull of sorrow!
gilded his head
Ignacio goes up the tiers
Of the signal maturity of your understanding.
Horse of still clouds,
at five in the afternoon.
at five in the afternoon.
and in the white thicket of frozen smoke.
At five in the afternoon.
Who shouts that I should come near!
I sing of his elegance with words that groan,
sliden on frozen horns,
For posterity I sing of your profile and grace.
He sought for the dawn
Death laid eggs in the wound
faltering soulles in the mist
And the oxide scattered crystal and nickel
Oh, white wall of Spain!
at five in the afternoon.
No.
for this captain stripped down by death.
I will not see it!
singing along marshes and meadows,
Arsenic bells and smoke
Before this body with broken reins.
I will not see it!
which loosens their limbs without soaking their blood.
for I do not want to see the blood
skeleton larks and wolves of penumbra:
It was five in the shade of the afternoon!
partly death and partly stone,
Your silent memory does not know you
shouting to celestial bulls,
nobody pricks the spurs, nor terrifies the serpent.
It will be a long time, if ever, before there is born
of wit and intelligence.
And now his blood comes out singing;
was his marvellous strength,
What a good peasant in the sierra!
at five in the afternoon.
For stone gathers seed and clouds,
The room was iridiscent with agony
no frost of light can cool it,
The moon wide open.
but the terrible mothers
At five in the afternoon.
Here I want nothing else but the round eyes
Now the dove and the leopard wrestle
nor sword like his sword
2. The Spilled Blood
How tremendous with the final
At five oclock in the afternoon.
He seeks for his confident profile
raising their tender riddle arms,
I do not want to hear it spurt
close to the starry Guadalquivir.
at five in the afternoon.
Let my memory kindle!
Who creases the shroud? What he says is not true!
but yields not sounds nor crystals nor fire,
The cow of the ancient world
at five in the afternoon.
And a thigh with a desolated horn
4. Absent Soul
each time with less strength:
The shoulder of the stone does not know you
I have seen grey showers move towards the waves
those men of sonorous skeleton who sing
At five in the afternoon.
because you have dead forever.
Go, Ignacio, feel not the hot bellowing
No.
misty grapes and clustered hills,
There was no prince in Sevilla
stoumbling over a thousand hoofs
at five in the afternoon.
without hearing the double planting of the bulls.
and encountered his opened blood
sated with threading the earth.
Like a river of lions
at five in the afternoon.
Bones and flutes resound in his ears
when thebull ring was covered with iodine
over the cordury and the leather
Horn of the lily through green groins
