The Beloved Sleeps on the Poet’s Breast
You will never understand the love I feel,
for you sleep in me, for you are asleep.
And I try to hide you, even as I weep,
haunted by a voice of penetrating steel.
Morals that pierce both flesh and star
now enter into my wounded breast,
and shadowy words, like jaws, are pressed
to the wings of the unbent soul you are.
In the garden, a dancing mob can be seen,
waiting for your corpse and my punished sins,
on horses of light with manes of green.
But sleep on, my love. Let the violins
sing of blood that runs in a broken stream
while the mob waits, it waits, to bring us in.
Federico García Lorca
Translated from Spanish by Paul Weinfield, © 2015