Lamps of crystal
and green mirrors.
On the darkened stage,
Parrala maintains
a conversation
with Death.
She calls Death,
but Death never comes,
and she calls out again.
The people are
inhaling her sobs.
And in the green mirrors,
her long, silk train
sways back and forth.
translated by Carlos Bauer
A hundred riders in funeral dress,
where will they go
in that laid-to-rest sky
of the orange grove?
Neither Cordoba nor Sevilla
will they ever reach.
Nor that Granada which sighs
for the sea.
Those drowsy horses
will carry them:
to that labyrinth of crosses
where the song shudders so.
With seven ays piercing them,
where will they go
those hundred Andalusian riders
of the orange grove?
translated by Carlos Bauer
Candle, oil lamp,
lamppost and firefly.
The constellation
of the saeta.
Little golden windows
tremble,
and at dawn superimposed
crosses sway about.
Candle, oil lamp,
lamppost and firefly.
translated by Carlos Bauer
TRANSLATOR’S NOTE: The saeta is a musical prayer that is sung as an offering after the procession stops during Holy Week in Seville.
In The Garden Of The Petenera
In the garden’s night,
six Gypsy girls,
dressed in white,
are dancing.
In the garden’s night,
crowned
with paper roses
and bishop’s weed.
In the garden’s night,
their mother-of-pearl teeth
wore the charred
shadow.
In the garden’s night,
their shadows lengthen
and reach up to the sky
with a purplish color.
translated by Carlos Bauer
When I die,
bury me with my guitar
beneath the sand.
When I die,
among orange trees
and mint plants.
When I die,
bury me, if you would,
inside a weather vane.
When I die!
translated by Carlos Bauer
. .The small boy is looking for his voice.
(The King of the Crickets had it.)
The boy was looking
in a drop of water for his voice.
. .I don’t want the voice to speak with;
I will make a ring from it
that my silence will wear
on its little finger.
. .The small boy was looking
in a drop of water for his voice.
. .(Far away the captured voice
was getting dressed up like a cricket.)
translated by Robert Bly
. .Beneath the Moses of the incense,
asleep.
. .Eyes of bulls were looking at you.
Your rosary was raining.
. .In that dress of deep silk,
do not move, Virginia.
. .Give the black melons of your breasts
to the whisper of the mass.
translated by Robert Bly
Beneath the Moses of the incense,
asleep.
Eyes of bulls were looking at you.
Your rosary was raining.
In that dress of deep silk,
do not move, Virginia.
Give the black melons of your breasts
to the whispers of the mass.
translated by Robert Bly
Dressed in black mantles,
she thinks the world is tiny
and the heart immense.
Dressed in black mantles.
She thinks the loving sigh
and the cry disappear
on the currents of the wind.
Dressed in black mantles.
The balcony was left open
and at dawn the whole sky
emptied onto the balcony.
Ay yayayayay,
dressed in black mantles!
The guitar
makes dreams weep.
The sobbing of lost
souls
escapes through its round
mouth.
And like the tarantula
it spins a large star
to trap the sighs
floating in its black,
wooden water tank.
translated by Carlos Bauer
Through the view point of camera...
L'essenziale è invisibile e agli occhi e al cuore. Beccarlo è pura questione di culo
In Kate's World
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4TheRecord is dedicated primarily to Ausmusic from all eras and most genres, we will explore the dynamics of the creative process, and reveal the great drama, lyricism, musicality, and emotion behind each classic song.
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