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笔趣阁 > The Poetry of Federico García Lorca > Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías

Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías

at five in teoon.

it ly five in teoon.

a boy brouge s

at five in teoon.

a frail of lime ready prepared

at five in teoon.

t h alone.

ttonwool

at five in teoon.

and ttered crystal and nickel

at five in teoon.

nole

at five in teoon.

and a ted ho

at five in teoon.

tring struck up

at five in teoon.

arsenic bells and smoke

at five in teoon.

groups of silence in the coers

at five in teoon.

and t!

at five in teoon.

of snow was coming

at five in teoon,

wh iodine

at five in teoon.

deathe wound

at five in teoon.

at five in teoon.

at five oclock in teoon.

a coffin on wheels is his bed

at five in teoon.

bones and flutes resound in his ears

at five in teoon.

nohrough his forehead

at five in teoon.

t h agony

at five in teoon.

in tance the gangrene now comes

at five in teoon.

hrough green groins

at five in teoon.

the wounds were buing like suns

at five in teoon.

at five in teoon.

a fatal five in teoon!

it he clocks!

it eoon!

i see it!

tell to come,

for i do not to see the blood

of ignacio on the sand.

i see it!

the moon wide open.

ill clouds,

and the grey bull ring of dreams

he barreras.

i see it!

let my memory kindle!

arm the jasmines

of suce weness!

i see it!

t world

passed ongue

over a snout of blood

spilled on the sand,

and the bulls of guisando,

partly deatly stone,

bellouries

sated h.

no.

i see it!

ignacio goes up tiers

h on his shoulders.

for the dawn

but the dawn was no more.

profile

and the dream bewilders him

for iful body

and encountered his opened blood

do not ask me to see it!

i do not to spurt

eacime rength:

t spurt t illuminates

tiers of seats, and spills

over ther

of a ty multiude.

s t i should come near!

do not ask me to see it!

close

whe hos near,

but terrible mothers

lifted their heads.

and across the ranches,

an air of secret voices rose,

sing to celestial bulls,

.

there was no prince in sevilla

wo him,

nor sword like his sword

nor so true.

like a river of lions

h,

and like a marble toroso

ion.

the air of andalusian rome

gilded his head

where his smile was a spikenard

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