Between shapes moving toward the serpent
and crystal-craving shapes,
I'll let my hair grow.
With the amputated tree that doesn't sing
and the child with the blank face of an egg.
With the little animals whose skulls are cracked
and the water, dressed in rags but with dry feet.
With all the bone-tired, deaf-and-dumb things
and a butterfly drowned in the inkwell.
Bumping into my own face, different each day.
Cut down by the sky!
by Federico García Lorca
Translated by Greg Simon & Steven F. White
