New Heart, June 1918 (Granada)

My heart, like a snake,

has shed its skin,

and here I look at it between my fingers,

full of wounds and honey.

The thoughts that nested

in your folds, where have they gone?

Where are the roses that gave off aromas

to Jesus Christ and Satan?

Poor wrapper that has oppressed

my fantastic bright star!

Gray aching scroll

of what I once loved but love no more.

I see fetal knowledge in you,

mummies of verses and skeletons

of my ancient innocence

and my secret romances.

Shall I hang you up on the walls

of my sentimental museum,

together with the cold and dark

sleeping irises of my misfortune?

Or shall I suspend you in the pines

–bereaved book of my love—

for you to learn of the warbling

that the nightingale dedicates to the dawn?

-  Federico Garcia Lorca