Sunday, September 03, 2006
Before the Dawn
But like love
the archers
are blind
Upon the green night,
the piercing saetas
leave traces of warm
lily.
The keel of the moon
breaks through purple clouds
and their quivers
fill with dew.
Ay, but like love
the archers
are blind!
Federico García Lorca
Labels: Poems
posted by A Decent Man at 9/03/2006 05:34:00 PM | Permalink | 
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