"Richard Armitage...Like a Mythic Figure out of Lorca." - The Sunday Times

Federico García Lorca

Federico García Lorca is one of the most important Spanish poets and dramatists of the twentieth century.

(www.poets.org)

Gacela of the Dark Death 

I want to sleep the dream of the apples,

to withdraw from the tumult of cemetries.

I want to sleep the dream of that child

who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas.

I don't want to hear again that the dead do not lose their blood,

that the putrid mouth goes on asking for water.

I don't want to learn of the tortures of the grass,

nor of the moon with a serpent's mouth

that labors before dawn.

I want to sleep awhile,

awhile, a minute, a century;

but all must know that I have not died;

that there is a stable of gold in my lips;

that I am the small friend of the West wing;

that I am the intense shadows of my tears.

Cover me at dawn with a veil,

because dawn will throw fistfuls of ants at me,

and wet with hard water my shoes

so that the pincers of the scorpion slide.

For I want to sleep the dream of the apples,

to learn a lament that will cleanse me to earth;

for I want to live with that dark child

who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas. 

Federico García Lorca

and one for me:

Cuando llegue la luna llena 

iré a Santiago de Cuba, 

iré a Santiago, 

en un coche de agua negra. 

Iré a Santiago. 

Cantarán los techos de palmera.

Iré a Santiago. 

Cuando la palma quiere ser cigüeña,

iré a Santiago. 

Y cuando quiere ser medusa el plátano, 

Iré a Santiago 

con la rubia cabeza de Fonseca.

Iré a Santiago. 

Y con la rosa de Romeo y Julieta 

iré a Santiago.

Mar de papel y plata de monedas

Iré a Santiago.

¡Oh Cuba! ¡Oh ritmo de semillas secas!

Iré a Santiago. 

¡Oh cintura caliente y gota de madera! 

Iré a Santiago. 

¡Arpa de troncos vivos, caimán, flor de tabaco!

Iré a Santiago. 

Siempre dije que yo iría a Santiago

en un coche de agua negra. 

Iré a Santiago. 

Brisa y alcohol en las ruedas,

iré a Santiago. 

Mi coral en la tiniebla,

iré a Santiago. 

El mar ahogado en la arena, 

iré a Santiago, 

calor blanco, fruta muerta,

iré a Santiago. 

¡Oh bovino frescor de cañavera!

¡Oh Cuba! ¡Oh curva de suspiro y barro!

Iré a Santiago.

Federico García Lorca