Night of Sleepless Love
The night rose with its moon full above.
I began to mourn, and you laughed with contempt.
Your scorn was a god, and my poor lament
was a momentary, shackled dove.
The night fell. You became a crystal of hurt,
weeping for distances slowly deepening.
My sadness, like a crowd of sores, came creeping
across your sickened heart of dirt.
But dawn joined our bodies on the bed
and with frozen lips pried wide apart
we drank the endless blood we’d shed.
And through the shutters, I saw sunrise start.
And the coral of life, with its branches spread,
arched high above my shrouded heart.
Federico García LorcaTranslated from Spanish by Paul Weinfield, © 2013