GACELA OF THE TERRIBLE PRESENCE
I want the river to lose its way.
I want the wind to quit the valley.
I want the night to lose its sight,
and my heart its flower of gold;
the cattle to speak to the great leaves,
and the worm to die of shadows;
the teeth on the skull to shine,
and the silk to be drowned in yellows.
I can see wounded midnight’s duel
struggling, knotted, with noon light.
I resist the broken arch, where time suffers,
and the green venom of twilight.
But do not make a black cactus,
open in reeds, of your nakedness.
Leave me afraid of dark planets,
but do not show me your calm waist.
Federico García Lorca
Translation by A. S. Kline