Alma ausente by Federico Garcia Lorca

Alma ausente

No te conoce el toro ni la higuera,
ni caballos ni hormigas de tu casa.
No te conoce el niño ni la tarde
porque te has muerto para siempre.

No te conoce el lomo de la piedra,
ni el raso negro donde te destrozas.
No te conoce tu recuerdo mudo
porque te has muerto para siempre.

El otoño vendrá con caracolas,
uva de niebla y montes agrupados,
pero nadie querrá mirar tus ojos
porque te has muerto para siempre.

Porque te has muerto para siempre,
como todos los muertos de la Tierra,
como todos los muertos que se olvidan
en un montón de perros apagados.

No te conoce nadie. No. Pero yo te canto.
Yo canto para luego tu perfil y tu gracia.
La madurez insigne de tu conocimiento.
Tu apetencia de muerte y el gusto de su boca.
La tristeza que tuvo tu valiente alegría.

Tardará mucho tiempo en nacer, si es que nace,
un andaluz tan claro, tan rico de aventura.
Yo canto su elegancia con palabras que gimen
y recuerdo una brisa triste por los olivos.

by Federico Garcia Lorca (1898 - 1936)




Absent Soul


The bull doesn't know you, nor the fig tree,
nor horses, nor ants of your house.
The boy doesn't know you, nor the afternoon
because you have died forever.

The surface of the stone doesn't know you,
nor the black satin where you are shattered.
Your dumb memory doesn't know you,
because you have died forever.

The Autum will come with seashells,
grape of fog and grouping mountains,
but nobody will want to look your eyes,
because you have died forever.

Because you have died forever,
like all the dead of the world,
like all the dead that are forgotten,
in a heap of dull dogs.

No one knows you. No, but I sing for you,
I sing for later your profile and your grace,
The distinguished maturity of your knowledge,
Your apetite for dead and the taste of its mouth.
The sadness that had your brave joy.

It will take a long time to born, if there is ever born,
An andalusian so clear, so rich of adventure,
I sing its elegance with words that groan,
and I remember a sad breeze for the olives.


This poem is from the spanish poet Federico Garcia Lorca, I thinks it's a very beautiful poem it matchs my actual feelings and the resent events on my life.
I try my best translating this poem, by no means it's a good transaltion, but you can have an idea of what is about, isn't?. Also I think my english is very bad...sorry