Phone Post
My COMPLETE Phone Post (5 min.) seems to have gotten lost. The remainder is definitely too cheap to let stand. So, in its stead, here is my English translation of the poem I had originally phoned in Spanish:
Oda a Federico García Lorca
por Pablo Neruda
Si pudiera llorar de miedo en una casa sola,
si pudiera sacarme los ojos y comérmelos,
lo haría por tu voz de naranjo enlutado
y por tu poesía que sale dando gritos.
Porque por ti pintan de azul los hospitales
y crecen las escuelas y los barrios marítimos,
y se pueblan de plumas los ángeles heridos,
y se cubren de escamas los pescados nupciales,
y van volando al cielo los erizos:
por ti las sastrerías con sus negras membranas
se llenan de cucharas y de sangre
y tragan cintas rotas, y se matan a besos,
y se visten de blanco.
Cuando vuelas vestido de durazno,
cuando ríes con risa de arroz huracanado,
cuando para cantar sacudes las arterias y los dientes,
la garganta y los dedos,
me moriría por lo dulce que eres,
me moriría por los lagos rojos
en donde en medio del otoño vives
con un corcel caído y un dios ensangrentado,
me moriría por los cementerios
que como cenicientos ríos pasan
con agua y tumbas,
de noche, entre campanas ahogadas:
ríos espesos como dormitorios
de soldados enfermos, que de súbito crecen
hacia la muerte en ríos con números de mármol
y coronas podridas, y aceites funerales:
me moriría por verte de noche
mirar pasar las cruces anegadas,
de pie llorando,
porque ante el río de la muerte lloras
abandonadamente, heridamente,
lloras llorando, con los ojos llenos
de lágrimas, de lágrimas, de lágrimas.
Si pudiera de noche, perdidamente solo,
acumular olvido y sombra y humo
sobre ferrocarriles y vapores,
con un embudo negro,
mordiendo las cenizas,
lo haría por el árbol en que creces,
por los nidos de aguas doradas que reúnes,
y por la enredadera que te cubre los huesos
comunicándote el secreto de la noche.
Ciudades con olor a cebolla mojada
esperan que tú pases cantando roncamente,
y silenciosos barcos de esperma te persiguen,
y golondrinas verdes hacen nido en tu pelo,
y además caracoles y semanas,
mástiles enrollados y cerezas
definitivamente circulan cuando asoman
tu pálida cabeza de quince ojos
y tu boca de sangre sumergida.
Si pudiera llenar de hollín las alcaldías
y, sollozando, derribar relojes,
sería para ver cuándo a tu casa
llega el verano con los labios rotos,
llegan muchas personas de traje agonizante,
llegan regiones de triste esplendor,
llegan arados muertos y amapolas,
llegan enterradores y jinetes,
llegan planetas y mapas con sangre,
llegan buzos cubiertos de ceniza,
llegan enmascarados arrastrando doncellas
atravesadas por grandes cuchillos,
llegan raíces, venas, hospitales,
manantiales, hormigas,
llega la noche con la cama en donde
muere entre las arañas un húsar solitario,
llega una rosa de odio y alfileres,
llega una embarcación amarillenta,
llega un día de viento con un niño,
llego yo con Oliverio, Norah
Vicente Aleixandre, Delia,
Maruca, Malva Marina, María Luisa y Larco,
la Rubia, Rafael Ugarte,
Cotapos, Rafael Alberti,
Carlos, Bebé, Manolo Altolaguirre,
Molinari,
Rosales, Concha Méndez,
y otros que se me olvidan.
Ven a que te corone, joven de la salud
y de la mariposa, joven puro
como un negro relámpago perpetuamente libre,
y conversando entre nosotros,
ahora, cuando no queda nadie entre las rocas,
hablemos sencillamente como eres tú y soy yo:
para qué sirven los versos si no es para el rocío?
Para qué sirven los versos si no es para esa noche
en que un puñal amargo nos averigua, para ese día,
para ese crepúsculo, para ese rincón roto
donde el golpeado corazón del hombre se dispone a morir?
Sobre todo de noche,
de noche hay muchas estrellas,
todas dentro de un río
como una cinta junto a las ventanas
de las casas llenas de pobres gentes.
Alguien se les ha muerto, tal vez
han perdido sus colocaciones en las oficinas,
en los hospitales, en los ascensores,
en las minas,
sufren los seres tercamente heridos
y hay propósito y llanto en todas partes:
mientras las estrellas corren dentro de un río interminable
hay mucho llanto en las ventanas,
los umbrales están gastados por el llanto,
las alcobas están mojadas por el llanto
que llega en forma de ola a morder las alfombras.
Federico,
tú ves el mundo, las calles,
el vinagre,
las despedidas en las estaciones
cuando el humo levanta sus ruedas decisivas
hacia donde no hay nada sino algunas
separaciones, piedras, vías férreas.
Hay tantas gentes haciendo preguntas
por todas partes.
Hay el ciego sangriento, y el iracundo, y el
desanimado,
y el miserable, el árbol de las uñas,
el bandolero con la envidia a cuestas.
Así es la vida, Federico, aquí tienes
las cosas que te puede ofrecer mi amistad
de melancólico varón varonil.
Ya sabes por ti mismo muchas cosas.
Y otras irás sabiendo lentamente.
Ode To Federico García Lorca
If I could weep fearsome in a lonely house
if I could wrench out my eyes and eat them
I would do it for your mournful orange-tree voice
and for your poetry that is borne forth screaming.
Because for you hospitals are painted blue
and out grow the schools and seaside hoods,
and wounded angels are settled in feathers,
and nuptial fish are covered in scales,
and urchins take flight to the sky,
for you, outfitters with their black membranes
fill their selves with spoons and with blood,
and engorge red ribbons, and kill themselves with kisses,
and dress their selves in white.
When you soar clothed as a peach tree,
when you laugh a laugh of whirlwind rice,
when to sing you shake the arteries and teeth,
the throat and the fingers,
I would die for the sweetness of you,
I would die for the crimson lakes,
where in the middle of autumn you live
with a fallen steed and a blood-soaked diety.
I would die for the cemetaries
that pass in gray like ashen rivers
with water and tombs,
at night, between smothered bells,
thick rivers swollen like dormitories
of sick soldiers, that in a sudden grow
towards death in rivers with numbers of marble
and decayed crowns, and funeral oils:
I would die for the vision of you at night
watching the crosses float by in flood
on your feet and weeping,
because stout before the river of death you weep
forsakenly, woundedly,
you weep weepingly, with eyes full
of tears, of tears, of tears.
If I could, by night, straying alone,
gather forgetting and shadow and smoke
over trains and steamships
with a black funnel,
mouthing the ashes with teeth,
I would do it for the tree in which you grow,
for the nests of tanned-golden waters you combine,
and for the entanglement of vines covering your bones
revealing to you the secret of the night.
Cities smelling of wet onion
wait for you to pass singing hoarsely,
and silent sperm ships pursue you,
and green swallows nest in your hair,
and also snails and weeks,
spiralling masts and cherry trees
decisively encircle upon glimpsing
your pale head with its fifteen eyes,
and your mouth of submerged blood.
If I could stuff the town halls with soot,
and sobbing, vanquish the clocks,
it would be to see when to your house,
comes the summer with ruptured lips,
come many people in harrowing dress,
come regions of sad splendor,
come dead plows and poppies,
come gravediggers and horsemen,
come planets and bloodstained maps,
come divers covered in ashes,
come masked men dragging damsels
intersected by large knives,
come roots, veins, hospitals,
springs, ants,
comes the night with the bed, on which,
a solitary cavalryman dies amongst spiders,
comes a rose of hatred and nettles,
comes a yellowish vessel,
comes a windy day with child,
come I with Oliverio, Norah,
Vicente Aleixandre, Delia,
Maruca, Malva Marma, María Luisa and Larco,
the Blonde, Rafael Ugarte,
Cotapo, Rafael Alberti,
Carlos, Bebé, Manolo Altolaguirre,
Molinari,
Rosales, Concha Mendez,
and others I chance forget.
Come so that I may crown you, youth of health
and of the butterfly, youth so pure
like a black lightning-flash perpetually free,
and conversing, between you and me,
now, when no one is left by the rocks,
let us speak simply of how you are and how I am:
what use are the verses if not for the dew?
What use are the verses if not for that night,
in which a bitter dagger finds us out, for that day,
for that atmosphere in flux, for that torn corner
where the stricken heart of man deems itself to die?
Above all at night,
at night are numerous stars,
all within a river
like a ribbon along the windows
of houses bulging with destitutes.
Someone has died on them, perhaps
they've lost their posts in offices,
in the hospitals, in the elevators,
in the mines,
beings suffer wounds stubbornly
and there are designs and grief all around:
meanwhile the stars run within an interminable river
there's much weeping at the windows,
the threshholds are worn from the weeping,
the alcoves are drenched with a weeping
that comes in form of a wave to bite the carpets.
Federico,
you see the world, the streets,
the vinegar,
the farewells on the station platforms
when the smoke lifts its decisive wheels
towards where there is nothing but a few
separations, stones, railroad tracks.
There are so many people asking questions
everywhere.
There's the bloody and blind, the irate, and the
disillusioned,
and the miserable, the tree of fingernails,
the robber emburdened with envy.
That's life, Federico, here you have
the things that can offer you my friendship
that of a melancholic, manly man.
On your own, you know many things
and others you will come to know slowly.
And ...
If I could become frightened to tears in some abandoned house. If I was able to yank out my eyes and ingest them ... it would be for cause of your voice. How it emerges from orange trees that have succumbed to grief, enribboned with mourning and enveloped in a darkness, from which, your poetry escapes emitting screams. Hospitals are painted blue for you. So loom the schools and coastal neighborhoods. Angels colonize their wounds with feathers. Newlywed fish are wrapped in scales. Sea urchins become energized and burst out of the sea and soar through the sky. And tailorshops with their thin black skins become filled with spoons, filled with blood, and they devour red ribbons, and they kiss each other to death, and cloak themselves in white. When you fly in peach tree costume, when your laughter resembles storm-tossed rice, when your singing tugs my inner seams and causes my teeth to vibrate, my throat becomes rattled, my fingers pulled taut, I would die for your sweetness of being, I would die for the red lakes where in the midst of autumn you live with a toppled steed and a god wrought bloody. I would die for the graveyards that flow like ashen rivers with waters and tombstones, at night, between drowning bells: CHUNKY rivers like infirmaries filled with sleeping sick soldiers that suddenly are thrust into death in a torrent of marble numbers and rotten crowns and embalming fluid. I would die to spy you at night, as you witness the floating crosses, as you stand and weep, because you shed tears for the Styx, relentlessly, painfully, you weep weeping, your eyes bursting with tearsTearsTEARS. If I could, by night, wandering lost, then alone, accumulate forgetting and shadow and smoke, over trains and steam, with a black funnel, grinding the ashes with teeth, I would do it for the tree from which you sprout, for the nests of waters tanned golden that you reunite, for the cords, entangling your bones, that whisper to you the secret of the night. Cities scented with wet onions, await your passing, your singing hoarsely, and mute sperm ships follow your course, and green swallows build nests in your hair, snails and weeks, too, rolled-up masts and cherry trees definitely gather around when they happen to glance that pallid head of yours, with its fifteen eyes, and your mouth dunked in blood. If I could pack city councils with soot, and sobbing, overthrow the clocks, it would be to discover when the following things arrive to your house: summer with its busted lips, many people in insufferable rags, regions sadly dulled of their brilliance, oxen dead at the plow and poppies, those that bury things and those that ride horses, orbiting planets and maps sprinkled with blood, snorkelers covered in ashes, masked men dragging damsels whose paths were crossed by great cutlery, roots ensoiled, arterial veins, hospitals, bubbling springs, ants, the night containing the bed on which a lone cavalryman is thrown to the spiders to die, a rosy hatred and needles, a yellowish barge, a windy day with a boy, and then, I arrive with a bunch of miscellaneous people, some of which flee my remembrance. Join me so that I may crown you. Youth of health, of perfect fitness. Youth of the butterfly. Youth of natural purity. Like a black lightningflash perpetually free. And ... between you and me, right now, when no one is left along the rocks, let us speak simply of how we both are, why write poetry if not for the dew? Why write poetry if not for that night, when a bitter dagger inquires after us, investigates us, for that day, for that dawn/dusk, for that empurpled horizon, for that cracked nook whereupon the thrashed heart of man readies itself to die? Above all else at night, there are stars at night in abundance, all within a river, like a ribbon that runs beside the windows of houses full of poor people. Somebody among them has died on them, perhaps, they have lost their sought-after roles in the offices, in the hospitals, in the elevators, in the mines, beings stubbornly suffer from wounds earned in stubbornness and there are plots and purpose and grieving everywhere: meanwhile the stars course inside an infinite river, there is much suffering at the windows, the threshholds are worn from the crying, the alcoves are damp with the anguish that arises like a wave to crash and bite the carpets. Federico, you visualize the world, you see the streets, doused in vinegar, the send-offs at the stations, when the smoke lifts its descisive wheels towards where there is nothing but a few separations, stones, railways. There are so many people posing questions everywhere. There's the bleeding and blind, the crabby, the uninspired, and the miserable, the tree of fingernails, the robber with envy pressing upon his shoulders. That's the way life is, Federico, here you have the things that can offer you my friendship, my company, that of a melancholic, virile man. In and of yourself, you know many things, and others you will slowly learn.
Oda a Federico García Lorca
por Pablo Neruda
Si pudiera llorar de miedo en una casa sola,
si pudiera sacarme los ojos y comérmelos,
lo haría por tu voz de naranjo enlutado
y por tu poesía que sale dando gritos.
Porque por ti pintan de azul los hospitales
y crecen las escuelas y los barrios marítimos,
y se pueblan de plumas los ángeles heridos,
y se cubren de escamas los pescados nupciales,
y van volando al cielo los erizos:
por ti las sastrerías con sus negras membranas
se llenan de cucharas y de sangre
y tragan cintas rotas, y se matan a besos,
y se visten de blanco.
Cuando vuelas vestido de durazno,
cuando ríes con risa de arroz huracanado,
cuando para cantar sacudes las arterias y los dientes,
la garganta y los dedos,
me moriría por lo dulce que eres,
me moriría por los lagos rojos
en donde en medio del otoño vives
con un corcel caído y un dios ensangrentado,
me moriría por los cementerios
que como cenicientos ríos pasan
con agua y tumbas,
de noche, entre campanas ahogadas:
ríos espesos como dormitorios
de soldados enfermos, que de súbito crecen
hacia la muerte en ríos con números de mármol
y coronas podridas, y aceites funerales:
me moriría por verte de noche
mirar pasar las cruces anegadas,
de pie llorando,
porque ante el río de la muerte lloras
abandonadamente, heridamente,
lloras llorando, con los ojos llenos
de lágrimas, de lágrimas, de lágrimas.
Si pudiera de noche, perdidamente solo,
acumular olvido y sombra y humo
sobre ferrocarriles y vapores,
con un embudo negro,
mordiendo las cenizas,
lo haría por el árbol en que creces,
por los nidos de aguas doradas que reúnes,
y por la enredadera que te cubre los huesos
comunicándote el secreto de la noche.
Ciudades con olor a cebolla mojada
esperan que tú pases cantando roncamente,
y silenciosos barcos de esperma te persiguen,
y golondrinas verdes hacen nido en tu pelo,
y además caracoles y semanas,
mástiles enrollados y cerezas
definitivamente circulan cuando asoman
tu pálida cabeza de quince ojos
y tu boca de sangre sumergida.
Si pudiera llenar de hollín las alcaldías
y, sollozando, derribar relojes,
sería para ver cuándo a tu casa
llega el verano con los labios rotos,
llegan muchas personas de traje agonizante,
llegan regiones de triste esplendor,
llegan arados muertos y amapolas,
llegan enterradores y jinetes,
llegan planetas y mapas con sangre,
llegan buzos cubiertos de ceniza,
llegan enmascarados arrastrando doncellas
atravesadas por grandes cuchillos,
llegan raíces, venas, hospitales,
manantiales, hormigas,
llega la noche con la cama en donde
muere entre las arañas un húsar solitario,
llega una rosa de odio y alfileres,
llega una embarcación amarillenta,
llega un día de viento con un niño,
llego yo con Oliverio, Norah
Vicente Aleixandre, Delia,
Maruca, Malva Marina, María Luisa y Larco,
la Rubia, Rafael Ugarte,
Cotapos, Rafael Alberti,
Carlos, Bebé, Manolo Altolaguirre,
Molinari,
Rosales, Concha Méndez,
y otros que se me olvidan.
Ven a que te corone, joven de la salud
y de la mariposa, joven puro
como un negro relámpago perpetuamente libre,
y conversando entre nosotros,
ahora, cuando no queda nadie entre las rocas,
hablemos sencillamente como eres tú y soy yo:
para qué sirven los versos si no es para el rocío?
Para qué sirven los versos si no es para esa noche
en que un puñal amargo nos averigua, para ese día,
para ese crepúsculo, para ese rincón roto
donde el golpeado corazón del hombre se dispone a morir?
Sobre todo de noche,
de noche hay muchas estrellas,
todas dentro de un río
como una cinta junto a las ventanas
de las casas llenas de pobres gentes.
Alguien se les ha muerto, tal vez
han perdido sus colocaciones en las oficinas,
en los hospitales, en los ascensores,
en las minas,
sufren los seres tercamente heridos
y hay propósito y llanto en todas partes:
mientras las estrellas corren dentro de un río interminable
hay mucho llanto en las ventanas,
los umbrales están gastados por el llanto,
las alcobas están mojadas por el llanto
que llega en forma de ola a morder las alfombras.
Federico,
tú ves el mundo, las calles,
el vinagre,
las despedidas en las estaciones
cuando el humo levanta sus ruedas decisivas
hacia donde no hay nada sino algunas
separaciones, piedras, vías férreas.
Hay tantas gentes haciendo preguntas
por todas partes.
Hay el ciego sangriento, y el iracundo, y el
desanimado,
y el miserable, el árbol de las uñas,
el bandolero con la envidia a cuestas.
Así es la vida, Federico, aquí tienes
las cosas que te puede ofrecer mi amistad
de melancólico varón varonil.
Ya sabes por ti mismo muchas cosas.
Y otras irás sabiendo lentamente.
Ode To Federico García Lorca
If I could weep fearsome in a lonely house
if I could wrench out my eyes and eat them
I would do it for your mournful orange-tree voice
and for your poetry that is borne forth screaming.
Because for you hospitals are painted blue
and out grow the schools and seaside hoods,
and wounded angels are settled in feathers,
and nuptial fish are covered in scales,
and urchins take flight to the sky,
for you, outfitters with their black membranes
fill their selves with spoons and with blood,
and engorge red ribbons, and kill themselves with kisses,
and dress their selves in white.
When you soar clothed as a peach tree,
when you laugh a laugh of whirlwind rice,
when to sing you shake the arteries and teeth,
the throat and the fingers,
I would die for the sweetness of you,
I would die for the crimson lakes,
where in the middle of autumn you live
with a fallen steed and a blood-soaked diety.
I would die for the cemetaries
that pass in gray like ashen rivers
with water and tombs,
at night, between smothered bells,
thick rivers swollen like dormitories
of sick soldiers, that in a sudden grow
towards death in rivers with numbers of marble
and decayed crowns, and funeral oils:
I would die for the vision of you at night
watching the crosses float by in flood
on your feet and weeping,
because stout before the river of death you weep
forsakenly, woundedly,
you weep weepingly, with eyes full
of tears, of tears, of tears.
If I could, by night, straying alone,
gather forgetting and shadow and smoke
over trains and steamships
with a black funnel,
mouthing the ashes with teeth,
I would do it for the tree in which you grow,
for the nests of tanned-golden waters you combine,
and for the entanglement of vines covering your bones
revealing to you the secret of the night.
Cities smelling of wet onion
wait for you to pass singing hoarsely,
and silent sperm ships pursue you,
and green swallows nest in your hair,
and also snails and weeks,
spiralling masts and cherry trees
decisively encircle upon glimpsing
your pale head with its fifteen eyes,
and your mouth of submerged blood.
If I could stuff the town halls with soot,
and sobbing, vanquish the clocks,
it would be to see when to your house,
comes the summer with ruptured lips,
come many people in harrowing dress,
come regions of sad splendor,
come dead plows and poppies,
come gravediggers and horsemen,
come planets and bloodstained maps,
come divers covered in ashes,
come masked men dragging damsels
intersected by large knives,
come roots, veins, hospitals,
springs, ants,
comes the night with the bed, on which,
a solitary cavalryman dies amongst spiders,
comes a rose of hatred and nettles,
comes a yellowish vessel,
comes a windy day with child,
come I with Oliverio, Norah,
Vicente Aleixandre, Delia,
Maruca, Malva Marma, María Luisa and Larco,
the Blonde, Rafael Ugarte,
Cotapo, Rafael Alberti,
Carlos, Bebé, Manolo Altolaguirre,
Molinari,
Rosales, Concha Mendez,
and others I chance forget.
Come so that I may crown you, youth of health
and of the butterfly, youth so pure
like a black lightning-flash perpetually free,
and conversing, between you and me,
now, when no one is left by the rocks,
let us speak simply of how you are and how I am:
what use are the verses if not for the dew?
What use are the verses if not for that night,
in which a bitter dagger finds us out, for that day,
for that atmosphere in flux, for that torn corner
where the stricken heart of man deems itself to die?
Above all at night,
at night are numerous stars,
all within a river
like a ribbon along the windows
of houses bulging with destitutes.
Someone has died on them, perhaps
they've lost their posts in offices,
in the hospitals, in the elevators,
in the mines,
beings suffer wounds stubbornly
and there are designs and grief all around:
meanwhile the stars run within an interminable river
there's much weeping at the windows,
the threshholds are worn from the weeping,
the alcoves are drenched with a weeping
that comes in form of a wave to bite the carpets.
Federico,
you see the world, the streets,
the vinegar,
the farewells on the station platforms
when the smoke lifts its decisive wheels
towards where there is nothing but a few
separations, stones, railroad tracks.
There are so many people asking questions
everywhere.
There's the bloody and blind, the irate, and the
disillusioned,
and the miserable, the tree of fingernails,
the robber emburdened with envy.
That's life, Federico, here you have
the things that can offer you my friendship
that of a melancholic, manly man.
On your own, you know many things
and others you will come to know slowly.
And ...
If I could become frightened to tears in some abandoned house. If I was able to yank out my eyes and ingest them ... it would be for cause of your voice. How it emerges from orange trees that have succumbed to grief, enribboned with mourning and enveloped in a darkness, from which, your poetry escapes emitting screams. Hospitals are painted blue for you. So loom the schools and coastal neighborhoods. Angels colonize their wounds with feathers. Newlywed fish are wrapped in scales. Sea urchins become energized and burst out of the sea and soar through the sky. And tailorshops with their thin black skins become filled with spoons, filled with blood, and they devour red ribbons, and they kiss each other to death, and cloak themselves in white. When you fly in peach tree costume, when your laughter resembles storm-tossed rice, when your singing tugs my inner seams and causes my teeth to vibrate, my throat becomes rattled, my fingers pulled taut, I would die for your sweetness of being, I would die for the red lakes where in the midst of autumn you live with a toppled steed and a god wrought bloody. I would die for the graveyards that flow like ashen rivers with waters and tombstones, at night, between drowning bells: CHUNKY rivers like infirmaries filled with sleeping sick soldiers that suddenly are thrust into death in a torrent of marble numbers and rotten crowns and embalming fluid. I would die to spy you at night, as you witness the floating crosses, as you stand and weep, because you shed tears for the Styx, relentlessly, painfully, you weep weeping, your eyes bursting with tearsTearsTEARS. If I could, by night, wandering lost, then alone, accumulate forgetting and shadow and smoke, over trains and steam, with a black funnel, grinding the ashes with teeth, I would do it for the tree from which you sprout, for the nests of waters tanned golden that you reunite, for the cords, entangling your bones, that whisper to you the secret of the night. Cities scented with wet onions, await your passing, your singing hoarsely, and mute sperm ships follow your course, and green swallows build nests in your hair, snails and weeks, too, rolled-up masts and cherry trees definitely gather around when they happen to glance that pallid head of yours, with its fifteen eyes, and your mouth dunked in blood. If I could pack city councils with soot, and sobbing, overthrow the clocks, it would be to discover when the following things arrive to your house: summer with its busted lips, many people in insufferable rags, regions sadly dulled of their brilliance, oxen dead at the plow and poppies, those that bury things and those that ride horses, orbiting planets and maps sprinkled with blood, snorkelers covered in ashes, masked men dragging damsels whose paths were crossed by great cutlery, roots ensoiled, arterial veins, hospitals, bubbling springs, ants, the night containing the bed on which a lone cavalryman is thrown to the spiders to die, a rosy hatred and needles, a yellowish barge, a windy day with a boy, and then, I arrive with a bunch of miscellaneous people, some of which flee my remembrance. Join me so that I may crown you. Youth of health, of perfect fitness. Youth of the butterfly. Youth of natural purity. Like a black lightningflash perpetually free. And ... between you and me, right now, when no one is left along the rocks, let us speak simply of how we both are, why write poetry if not for the dew? Why write poetry if not for that night, when a bitter dagger inquires after us, investigates us, for that day, for that dawn/dusk, for that empurpled horizon, for that cracked nook whereupon the thrashed heart of man readies itself to die? Above all else at night, there are stars at night in abundance, all within a river, like a ribbon that runs beside the windows of houses full of poor people. Somebody among them has died on them, perhaps, they have lost their sought-after roles in the offices, in the hospitals, in the elevators, in the mines, beings stubbornly suffer from wounds earned in stubbornness and there are plots and purpose and grieving everywhere: meanwhile the stars course inside an infinite river, there is much suffering at the windows, the threshholds are worn from the crying, the alcoves are damp with the anguish that arises like a wave to crash and bite the carpets. Federico, you visualize the world, you see the streets, doused in vinegar, the send-offs at the stations, when the smoke lifts its descisive wheels towards where there is nothing but a few separations, stones, railways. There are so many people posing questions everywhere. There's the bleeding and blind, the crabby, the uninspired, and the miserable, the tree of fingernails, the robber with envy pressing upon his shoulders. That's the way life is, Federico, here you have the things that can offer you my friendship, my company, that of a melancholic, virile man. In and of yourself, you know many things, and others you will slowly learn.