Love of my gut, living death,
in vain I hope your written word
and I think, with the flower that Withers,
What if I live without me want to lose you.
The air is immortal. The inert stone
don't even know the shadow or the prevents.
Inner heart does not require
the honey ice cream that the Moon sheds.
But I suffered. Have ripped the veins,
Tiger and Dove, about your waist
in duel of kordiscos and lilies.
Fills in words my madness
or let me live in my serene
night of the soul forever dark.
Federico Garcia Lorca
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