|
Casida: The Impossible Hand
I want for nothing more than a hand,
a wounded hand, if possible.
I want for nothing more than a hand
even if I spend many nights without a bed.
It would be a pale whitewashed lily,
a dove tethered to my heart,
a guard who, on the night I pass away,
blocks the way to the moon.
I want for nothing more than that hand
for daily unctions and the white sheet of my agony.
I want for nothing more than that hand
to carry a wing at my death.
Apart from that, all comes to an end.
A nameless glow. An everlasting star.
What remains is something else; a sad wind,
with flocks of leaves flying away.
English translation by Paul Archer of Lorca's Casida de la mano imposible.
For more poems from this collection, go to El Diván Del Tamarit.
|
