The Poet Tells the Truth. To Miriam Meckel.

Det er overfladisk at tale om Lorca som sensualist. Han er sansernes realitet.

Ghazal of Dark Death.

I want to sleep the sleep of apples
far away from the uproar of cemeteries
I want to sleep the sleep of that child
who wanted to cut his heart out on the sea.


I don´t want to hear that the dead lose no blod,
that the decomposed mouth is still begging for water.
I don´t want to find out about grass-given martyrdoms,
or the snake-mouthed moon that works before dawn.

I want to sleep just a moment,
a moment, a minute, a century.
But let it be known that I have not died:
that there is a stable of gold in my lips,
that I am the West Winds little friend,
that I am the enormous shadow of my tears.

Wrap me at dawn in a veil,
for she will hurl fistfuls of ants;
sprinkle my shoes with hard water
so her scorpion´s sting will slide off.

Because I want to sleep the sleep of apples
and learn a lament that will cleanse me of earth;
because I want to live with that dark child
who wanted to cut his heart out on the sea.