The air cares nothing for groans

tindall-fain-cemetery

Here’s a weird, surrealistic poem by Federico Garcia Lorca:

Little Infinite Poem

For Luis Cardoza y Aragon

To take the wrong road

is to arrive at the snow,

and to arrive at the snow

is to get down on all fours for twenty centuries and eat the

grasses of the cemeteries.

 

To take the wrong road is to arrive at woman,

woman who isn’t afraid of light,

woman who murders two roosters in one second,

light which isn’t afraid of roosters,

and roosters who don’t know how to sing on top of the

snow.

 

But if the snow truly takes the wrong road,

then it might meet the southern wind,

and since the air cares nothing for groans,

we will have to get down on all fours again and eat the

grasses of the cemeteries.

 

I saw two mournful wheatheads made of wax

burying a countryside of volcanoes;

and I saw two insane little boys who wept as they leaned on

a murderer’s eyeballs.

 

But two has never been a number –

because it’s only an anguish and its shadow,

it’s only a guitar where love feels how hopeless it is,

it’s the proof of someone else’s infinity,

and the walls around a dead man,

and the scourging of a new resurrection that will never end.

Dead people hate the number two,

but the number two makes women drop off to sleep,

and since women are afraid of light,

light shudders when it has to face the roosters,

and since all roosters know is how to fly over the snow

we will have to get down on all fours and eat the grasses of

the cemeteries forever.

 

 

 

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/infinite/”>Infinite</a&gt;

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