Time.

A garland, quick, I’m dying!

Weave it now, sing and moan and sing!

For shadows my throat are clouding

and again the January light comes in.

Trembling bushes and the air of stars

lie between your love and mine,

a dense mass of anemones picks up

an entire year with a muffled moan.

Revel in the open country of my wound,

break apart its reeds and delicate rivulets,

drink from my thigh my pouring blood.

But be quick! And then, together entwined,

with love-broken mouths and frayed souls

time will find us utterly destroyed.

Federico Garcia Lorca