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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=391474" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">1. Cogida and death</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At five in the afternoon.<br>It was exactly five in the afternoon.<br>A boy brought the white sheet<br>at five in the afternoon.<br>A frail of lime ready prepared<br>at five in the afternoon.<br>The rest was death, and death alone.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The wind carried away the cottonwool<br>at five in the afternoon.<br>And the oxide scattered crystal and nickel<br>at five in the afternoon.<br>Now the dove and the leopard wrestle<br>at five in the afternoon.<br>And a thigh with a desolated horn<br>at five in the afternoon.<br>The bass-string struck up<br>at five in the afternoon.<br>Arsenic bells and smoke<br>at five in the afternoon.<br>Groups of silence in the corners<br>at five in the afternoon.<br>And the bull alone with a high heart!<br>At five in the afternoon.<br>When the sweat of snow was coming<br>at five in the afternoon,<br>when the bull ring was covered with iodine<br>at five in the afternoon.<br>Death laid eggs in the wound<br>at five in the afternoon.<br>At five in the afternoon.<br>At five o'clock in the afternoon.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A coffin on wheels is his bed<br>at five in the afternoon.<br>Bones and flutes resound in his ears<br>at five in the afternoon.<br>Now the bull was bellowing through his forehead<br>at five in the afternoon.<br>The room was iridiscent with agony<br>at five in the afternoon.<br>In the distance the gangrene now comes<br>at five in the afternoon.<br>Horn of the lily through green groins<br>at five in the afternoon.<br>The wounds were burning like suns<br>at five in the afternoon.<br>At five in the afternoon.<br>Ah, that fatal five in the afternoon!<br>It was five by all the clocks!<br>It was five in the shade of the afternoon!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">2. The Spilled Blood</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I will not see it!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Tell the moon to come,<br>for I do not want to see the blood<br>of Ignacio on the sand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I will not see it!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The moon wide open.<br>Horse of still clouds,<br>and the grey bull ring of dreams<br>with willows in the barreras.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I will not see it!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Let my memory kindle!<br>Warm the jasmines<br>of such minute whiteness!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I will not see it!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The cow of the ancient world<br>passed har sad tongue<br>over a snout of blood<br>spilled on the sand,<br>and the bulls of Guisando,<br>partly death and partly stone,<br>bellowed like two centuries<br>sated with threading the earth.<br>No.<br>I will not see it!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ignacio goes up the tiers<br>with all his death on his shoulders.<br>He sought for the dawn<br>but the dawn was no more.<br>He seeks for his confident profile<br>and the dream bewilders him<br>He sought for his beautiful body<br>and encountered his opened blood<br>Do not ask me to see it!<br>I do not want to hear it spurt<br>each time with less strength:<br>that spurt that illuminates<br>the tiers of seats, and spills<br>over the cordury and the leather<br>of a thirsty multiude.<br>Who shouts that I should come near!<br>Do not ask me to see it!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">His eyes did not close<br>when he saw the horns near,<br>but the terrible mothers<br>lifted their heads.<br>And across the ranches,<br>an air of secret voices rose,<br>shouting to celestial bulls,<br>herdsmen of pale mist.<br>There was no prince in Sevilla<br>who could compare to him,<br>nor sword like his sword<br>nor heart so true.<br>Like a river of lions<br>was his marvellous strength,<br>and like a marble toroso<br>his firm drawn moderation.<br>The air of Andalusian Rome<br>gilded his head<br>where his smile was a spikenard<br>of wit and intelligence.<br>What a great torero in the ring!<br>What a good peasant in the sierra!<br>How gentle with the sheaves!<br>How hard with the spurs!<br>How tender with the dew!<br>How dazzling the fiesta!<br>How tremendous with the final<br>banderillas of darkness!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But now he sleeps without end.<br>Now the moss and the grass<br>open with sure fingers<br>the flower of his skull.<br>And now his blood comes out singing;<br>singing along marshes and meadows,<br>sliden on frozen horns,<br>faltering soulles in the mist<br>stoumbling over a thousand hoofs<br>like a long, dark, sad tongue,<br>to form a pool of agony<br>close to the starry Guadalquivir.<br>Oh, white wall of Spain!<br>Oh, black bull of sorrow!<br>Oh, hard blood of Ignacio!<br>Oh, nightingale of his veins!<br>No.<br>I will not see it!<br>No chalice can contain it,<br>no swallows can drink it,<br>no frost of light can cool it,<br>nor song nor deluge og white lilies,<br>no glass can cover mit with silver.<br>No.<br>I will not see it!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">3. The Laid Out Body</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Stone is a forehead where dreames grieve<br>without curving waters and frozen cypresses.<br>Stone is a shoulder on which to bear Time<br>with trees formed of tears and ribbons and planets.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I have seen grey showers move towards the waves<br>raising their tender riddle arms,<br>to avoid being caught by lying stone<br>which loosens their limbs without soaking their blood.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For stone gathers seed and clouds,<br>skeleton larks and wolves of penumbra:<br>but yields not sounds nor crystals nor fire,<br>only bull rings and bull rings and more bull rings without walls.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now, Ignacio the well born lies on the stone.<br>All is finished. What is happening! Contemplate his face:<br>death has covered him with pale sulphur<br>and has place on him the head of dark minotaur.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All is finished. The rain penetrates his mouth.<br>The air, as if mad, leaves his sunken chest,<br>and Love, soaked through with tears of snow,<br>warms itself on the peak of the herd.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What is they saying? A stenching silence settles down.<br>We are here with a body laid out which fades away,<br>with a pure shape which had nightingales<br>and we see it being filled with depthless holes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Who creases the shroud? What he says is not true!<br>Nobody sings here, nobody weeps in the corner,<br>nobody pricks the spurs, nor terrifies the serpent.<br>Here I want nothing else but the round eyes<br>to see his body without a chance of rest.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here I want to see those men of hard voice.<br>Those that break horses and dominate rivers;<br>those men of sonorous skeleton who sing<br>with a mouth full of sun and flint.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here I want to see them. Before the stone.<br>Before this body with broken reins.<br>I want to know from them the way out<br>for this captain stripped down by death.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I want them to show me a lament like a river<br>wich will have sweet mists and deep shores,<br>to take the body of Ignacio where it looses itself<br>without hearing the double planting of the bulls.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Loses itself in the round bull ring of the moon<br>which feigns in its youth a sad quiet bull,<br>loses itself in the night without song of fishes<br>and in the white thicket of frozen smoke.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I don't want to cover his face with handkerchiefs<br>that he may get used to the death he carries.<br>Go, Ignacio, feel not the hot bellowing<br>Sleep, fly, rest: even the sea dies!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">4. Absent Soul</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The bull does not know you, nor the fig tree,<br>nor the horses, nor the ants in your own house.<br>The child and the afternoon do not know you<br>because you have dead forever.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The shoulder of the stone does not know you<br>nor the black silk, where you are shuttered.<br>Your silent memory does not know you<br>because you have died forever</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The autumn will come with small white snails,<br>misty grapes and clustered hills,<br>but no one will look into your eyes<br>because you have died forever.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Because you have died for ever,<br>like all the dead of the earth,<br>like all the dead who are forgotten<br>in a heap of lifeless dogs.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nobady knows you. No. But I sing of you.<br>For posterity I sing of your profile and grace.<br>Of the signal maturity of your understanding.<br>Of your appetite for death and the taste of its mouth.<br>Of the sadness of your once valiant gaiety.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It will be a long time, if ever, before there is born<br>an Andalusian so true, so rich in adventure.<br>I sing of his elegance with words that groan,<br>and I remember a sad breeze through the olive trees.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Federico+Garc%C3%ADa+Lorca">Federico García Lorca</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=391474" data-title="Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías de Federico García Lorca" data-description="1. Cogida and death

At five in the afternoon.
It was exactly five in the afternoon.
A boy brought the white sheet
at five in the afternoon.
A frail of lime ready prepared
at five in the afternoon.
The rest was death, and death alone.

The wind ca..."></div>
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