I pronounce your name on dark nights,
when the stars come to drink on the moon
and sleep in tufts of hidden fronds.
And I feel myself hollow of passion and music.
Crazy clock that sings dead ancient hours.
I pronounce your name, in this dark night,
and your name sounds more distant than ever.
More distant than all stars
and more doleful than a calm rain.
Will I love you like then ever again?
What blame has my heart?
When the mist dissipates,
what other passion may I expect?
Will it be calm and pure?
If only my fingers could defoliate the moon!
- Federico Garcia Lorca.
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