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