" The weeping of the guitar begins.
The goblets of dawn are smashed.
The weeping of the guitar begins.
Useless to silence it.
Impossible to silence it.
It weeps monotonously
as water weeps
as the wind weeps over snowfields.
Impossible to silence it.
It weeps for distant things.
Hot southern sands yearning for white camellias.
Weeps arrow without target evening without morning
and the first dead bird on the branch.
Oh, guitar! Heart mortally wounded by five swords."

/The Guitar: by Federico García Lorca/

/Translated by Cola Franzen/