Poesía de Federico García Lorca

It was my old voice
ignorant of the dense bitter juices.
The soothsayer licking my feet
under the fragile ferns wet.
Oh ancient voice of my love,
oh my true voice,
open to and voice my side,
when all the roses flowed from my tongue
and the grass did not know the impassive horse's teeth!

You are here drinking my blood,
child drinking my heavy mood,
while my eyes are broken in the wind
with aluminum and the voices of drunks.

Let me pass the door
where Eve eats ants
Adam fecund fish and dazzled.
Let me go, little man with the horns.