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.
Lorca
(Painting by Picasso, The Old Guitarist)
very beautiful and very painful sunny
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