The Poet Asks His Lover About the Magical City of Cuenca
Did you care for that city, built drop by drop,
out of pure water, among the balsam trees?
Did you see streets and faces and strange reveries,
wailing walls whipped by the wind’s riding crop?
Did you see the blue crack of the moon high above
that the river Júcar wets with crystalline hymns?
Did the country thistles come to kiss your limbs
and crown you with distant stones of love?
Did you think of me when at last you had risen
to the peak of silence where the snake is torn apart
by shadows and crickets that cast him in prison?
And in that air, did a new sort of clarity start
to form itself in flowers of sorrow and vision,
made manifest to you by my own burning heart?
Federico García Lorca
Translated from Spanish by Paul Weinfield, © 2016
Image by Henry Justice Ford