Bones and flutes resound in his ears
because you have died forever
at five in the afternoon.
no glass can cover mit with silver.
wich will have sweet mists and deep shores,
and the grey bull ring of dreams
but the dawn was no more.
No.
Arsenic bells and smoke
with trees formed of tears and ribbons and planets.
Sleep, fly, rest: even the sea dies!
3. The Laid Out Body
I will not see it!
at five in the afternoon.
Your silent memory does not know you
where his smile was a spikenard
Horse of still clouds,
faltering soulles in the mist
at five in the afternoon,
Of the signal maturity of your understanding.
There was no prince in Sevilla
He seeks for his confident profile
and the bulls of Guisando,
Here I want to see them. Before the stone.
How tremendous with the final
Tell the moon to come,
but yields not sounds nor crystals nor fire,
At five in the afternoon.
and I remember a sad breeze through the olive trees.
death has covered him with pale sulphur
What is they saying? A stenching silence settles down.
an Andalusian so true, so rich in adventure.
Oh, black bull of sorrow!
was his marvellous strength,
and like a marble toroso
spilled on the sand,
Horn of the lily through green groins
of Ignacio on the sand.
I will not see it!
The moon wide open.
Before this body with broken reins.
The air of Andalusian Rome
of such minute whiteness!
Of your appetite for death and the taste of its mouth.
bellowed like two centuries
I want them to show me a lament like a river
The shoulder of the stone does not know you
Here I want to see those men of hard voice.
What a great torero in the ring!
Now, Ignacio the well born lies on the stone.
for I do not want to see the blood
Warm the jasmines
no frost of light can cool it,
over the cordury and the leather
of a thirsty multiude.
Who shouts that I should come near!
when he saw the horns near,
to see his body without a chance of rest.
All is finished. What is happening! Contemplate his face:
And across the ranches,
his firm drawn moderation.
who could compare to him,
nor sword like his sword
which loosens their limbs without soaking their blood.
Ignacio goes up the tiers
and the dream bewilders him
Like a river of lions
gilded his head
an air of secret voices rose,
But now he sleeps without end.
I will not see it!
I have seen grey showers move towards the waves
And now his blood comes out singing;
No.
over a snout of blood
When the sweat of snow was coming
nor the black silk, where you are shuttered.
at five in the afternoon.
nor heart so true.
Now the bull was bellowing through his forehead
The wounds were burning like suns
I dont want to cover his face with handkerchiefs
at five in the afternoon.
The wind carried away the cottonwool
nor song nor deluge og white lilies,
How gentle with the sheaves!
because you have dead forever.
And the bull alone with a high heart!
those men of sonorous skeleton who sing
like all the dead of the earth,
passed har sad tongue
His eyes did not close
The bull does not know you, nor the fig tree,
For stone gathers seed and clouds,
each time with less strength:
only bull rings and bull rings and more bull rings without walls.
raising their tender riddle arms,
All is finished. The rain penetrates his mouth.
At five in the afternoon.
In the distance the gangrene now comes
warms itself on the peak of the herd.
Stone is a forehead where dreames grieve
Here I want nothing else but the round eyes
and we see it being filled with depthless holes.
at five in the afternoon.
sated with threading the earth.
nobody pricks the spurs, nor terrifies the serpent.
Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías
Those that break horses and dominate rivers;
At five in the afternoon.
but no one will look into your eyes
It was exactly five in the afternoon.
the tiers of seats, and spills
I will not see it!
without hearing the double planting of the bulls.
at five in the afternoon.
herdsmen of pale mist.
Now the dove and the leopard wrestle
Death laid eggs in the wound
I will not see it!
Oh, white wall of Spain!
to form a pool of agony
to avoid being caught by lying stone
sliden on frozen horns,
The cow of the ancient world
The child and the afternoon do not know you
Do not ask me to see it!
at five in the afternoon.
for this captain stripped down by death.
no swallows can drink it,
No.
in a heap of lifeless dogs.
banderillas of darkness!
For posterity I sing of your profile and grace.
Of the sadness of your once valiant gaiety.
Go, Ignacio, feel not the hot bellowing
A frail of lime ready prepared
The autumn will come with small white snails,
open with sure fingers
ant in the sierra!