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The poet talks on the telephone with his beloved
Your voice watered my heart’s dunes
in that sweet wooden telephone booth.
It was spring at my feet to the south
and north of my forehead flowered ferns.
A pine tree of light sang in that tight space
though it wasn’t dawn or the time for sowing,
and my weeping strung for the first time
garlands of hope across the rooftops.
A sweet and distant voice pouring into my glass,
a sweet and distant voice for me to taste,
a distant and sweet swoon of a voice.
Distant as a dark wounded doe,
sweet as a sob in the falling snow,
distant and sweet, deep to the marrow!
English translation by Paul Archer of Lorca's El poeta habla por teléfono con el amor.
For more translations from Lorca's Sonetos del amor oscuro, go to Sonnets of Dark Love. |
