Frederico Garcia Lorca, born today, murdered at 38 years of age during the Spanish Civil War. Sonnet of the Sweet Complaint Never let me lose the marvel of your statue-like eyes, or the accent the solitary rose of your breath places on my cheek at night. I am afraid of being, on this shore, a branchless trunk, and what I most regret is having no flower, pulp, or clay for the worm of my despair. If you are my hidden treasure, if you are my cross, my dampened pain, if I am a dog, and you alone my master, never let me lose what I have gained, and adorn the branches of your river with leaves of my estranged Autumn. Lorca
Posted on: Thu, 05 Jun 2014 02:53:36 +0000
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