Autor:    Tuirán Danith Urango

FEDERICO GARCÍA LORCA

Let the veil be drawn

let the invisible doors open,

those that stop the passage of the past, leave,

let nothing stop

of what flows from time to here,

and from here to the coordinates. Let.

Now let him come with his sonorous guitar,

let Andalusia show her face,

let all Córdoba break off,

let Granada comes painted red

and Sevilla with ornate magnolias.

Saint Michael and his sword will pass through here,

Saint Raphael will bring his scarlet court

and San Gabriel notes from Málaga.

Here the gypsy nun will spend the night,

the unfaithful married woman will bring her petticoats,

and a green horse with sabers´ neigh

will shake the foundations of the house.

Running wild dropping his heavy blood,

the bull of Spain, and I in silence

observe all the entourage that passes,

black grief dressed in pink,

and a thousand songs of gypsy mouths,

they all pass and Lorca does not pass,

they all sing and Lorca does not sing,

poetry groans for crazy hope,

and I wait silently and Lorca does not pass.

The night is still very vague,

more gypsy notes arrive,

notes that taste bitter root

and water wounded by bullets.

His verse is already walking,

the one who painted his beard for love is coming,

he is coming and Lorca passes

singing his dead hope.

Pass the figurehead,

the crocodiles looking for his eyes,

the Harlem black people and the king.

Carnival and danzón are coming,

death comes in disguise,

New York and Spain are coming, hurt too,

and poetry moans his pain,

and poetry sings his song.

Lorca comes singing his elegy,

Lorca comes singing his ballad

on the shoulders of victory.

Lorca comes on the water,

is part now of the whole earth,

of each star, of each moon,

he belongs to the sun, to the sea,

he belongs to the music,

he belongs to sound and light,

he belongs to life.

He who died has not died,

he passes now alive on victory

singing his crazy hope,

Lorca passes and passes and passes

sounding his sonorous guitar.