Living Sky


I will not be able to complain
if I am unable to find what I was searching for.
Near the rocks without juice and empty insects
I will not see the duel of the sun
with the creatures of living flesh.

But I will go to the first landscape
of shocks, liquids, and sounds
that flow to a boy recently born
and where all the surface is evaded
so that I can understand what I looked for, what is
a whiteness of joy when I can fly mixed with love and sand.

You can’t advance but for the swarms of corollas
since the air dissolves your sugary teeth,
nor can you caress the fleeting fern’s leaf
without feeling the absolute amazement of ivory.

There the starch of closed eyes doesn’t arrive,
nor the howl of the tree murdered by the caterpillar.
There all the shapes guard mixed together
a solitary expression frenetic in advance.

There beneath the roots and in the marrow of the air
one understands the truth of mistaken things,
the swimmer of nickel who lies in wait for the finest wave
and the nocturnal herd of cows with the red little pads of women.

I will not be able to complain
if I am unable to find what I was searching for
but I will go to the first landscape of humidity and throbbing
to understand what I looked for, what is
a whiteness of joy when I fly mixed with love and sand.

I fly fresh forever over empty beds,
over groupings of wind and quieted boats.
I stumble vacillating between a hard fixed eternity
and a love at last without dawn.  Love.  Love visible!



Federico Garcia Lorca