by Federico García Lorca （Translated by Cola Franzen）

    The weeping of the guitar begins.

    The goblets of dawn are smashed.

    The weeping of the guitar begins.

    Useless to silence it.

    Impossible to silence it.

    It weeps monotonously

    as water weeps

    as the wind weeps

    over snowfields.

    Impossible to silence it.

    It weeps for distant things.

    Hot southern sands

    yearning for white camellias.

    Weeps arrow without target

    evening without morning

    and the first dead bird

    on the branch.

    Oh， guitar！

    Heart mortally wounded

    by five swords