Julius Von Klever, Der Erlköni, 1887 Murdered by the sky. Among the forms that move toward the snake and the forms searching for crystal I will let my hair grow. With the limbless tree that cannot sing and the boy with the white egg face. With the broken-headed animals and the ragged water of dry …
Federico Garcia Lorca – Ritorno / Back from a walk Read More »
Robert McGinnis, On the run, 1967 By the river banks the night is wetting itself and on Lolita’s breasts the branches die of love. The branches die of love. The naked night sings over the March bridgeheads. Lolita washes her body with brine and tuberoses. The branches die of love. The night of aniseed and …
Federico Garcia Lorca – Serenata (Homage to Lope de Vega) Read More »
Pablo Picasso, Old guitarist, 1903 It begins, the lament of the guitar. The wineglass of dawn is broken. It begins, the lament of the guitar. It’s useless to silence it. Impossible to silence it. It cries monotonously as the water cries, as the wind cries over the snow. Impossible to silence it. It cries for …
Federico Garcia Lorca – La chitarra / The guitar Read More »
Julius von Klever, Little red riding hood, 1908 Through the indecisive branches went a girl who was life. Through the indecisive branches. She reflected daylight, with a tiny mirror, which was the splendour, of her unclouded forehead. Through the indecisive branches. In the dark of night, lost, she wandered, weeping the dew, of this imprisoned …
Federico Garcia Lorca – Prigioniera / The prisoner Read More »
George de Forest Brush, The Indian and the lily, 1887 My heart rests, by the cold fountain. (Fill it with threads, spider of silence.) The fountain-water sang it the song. (Fill it with threads, spider of silence.) My heart, waking, sang its desires. (Spider of nothingness, spin your mystery.) The fountain-water listened sombrely. (Spider of …
William Stott of Oldham, The Birth of Venus, 1887 That which travelsclouds itself.The running watercan see no stars.That which travelsforgets itself.And that which halts itselfdreams. Colui che camminasi confonde.L’acqua correntenon vede le stelle.Colui che camminasi dimentica.E chi si fermasogna. Go back to album – F. G. Lorca
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