Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías
a!
remendous he final
banderillas of darkness!
But now end.
Nohe grass
open h sure fingers
the flower of his skull.
And now singing;
singing along marshes and meadows,
sliden on frozen horns,
faltering soulles in t
stoumbling over a thousand hoofs
like a long, dark, sad tongue,
to form a pool of agony
close to tarry Guadalquivir.
Oe wall of Spain!
Oh, black bull of sorrow!
Oh, hard blood of Ignacio!
Oingale of his veins!
No.
I see it!
No cain it,
no s,
no frost of lig,
nor song nor deluge og we lilies,
no glass can cover mit h silver.
No.
I see it!
Stone is a forehead where dreames grieve
curving ers and frozen cypresses.
Stone is a so bear time
rees formed of tears and ribbons and planets.
I ohe waves
raising tender riddle arms,
to avoid being caugone
heir blood.
For stone gathers seed and clouds,
skeleton larks and wolves of penumbra:
but yields not sounds nor crystals nor fire,
only bull rings and bull rings and more bull rings walls.
Noone.
All is finis is emplate his face:
death pale sulphur
and aur.
All is finisrates h.
t,
and Love, soaked tears of snow,
self on the herd.
is tenctles down.
e are which fades away,
i