Oh, what a field of sorrow!
Oh, what beauty behind closed doors!,
I ask a child to suffer, and the air gives me dahlias
sleeping moon.
These two sources that I have
of warm milk are in the depths of my flesh
horse
two pulses that make the industry beating my anxiety.
Oh, blind breasts under my dress!
Oh, no eyes or white doves!
Oh, my aching
imprisoned blood is nailing me in the neck wasps!
But you should come, love, my child,
because water gives salt, soil fruit, and our belly saved
tender children
sweet as the cloud has rain.
Federico García Lorca
Paco Ibáñez