The Mad Boy

You said “late”,
but you were not there.
The afternoon has a different name
which is pronounced “walking”.

( and the light recognizes
that men are also boys ).

“Late”, but it is useless!
it was a lie , it has
a full moon to show us
and no other story to tell.

(and the light, like an omniscient wind
plays upon the body of the crazy boy)

The other was tiny
and devoured Leviathans.

It was gigantic and green
I don’t think I can
hold anything in my arms.
Is it true? How can it be?

( and the light, which knows God’s little joke,
keeps the mad boy from seeing his shadow ).


- after Lorca
transl. June ‘99. Barcelona.

It’s True

Oh what a work I have chosen
guessing at your desires!

For your love is soft as air
as a soft-hearted soul
as an old worn hat.

What can I compare to myself?
I have a hundred things.
But it is a white sadness
which I fly as my flag.

Oh what a work I have chosen
guessing at your desires.

- after Lorca. Transl. Ju. ‘99. Barcelona.