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Antonio Machado Short Poems

Famous Short Antonio Machado Poems. Short poetry by famous poet Antonio Machado. A collection of the all-time best Antonio Machado short poems


by Antonio Machado
 Who set, between those rocks like cinder,
to show the honey of dream,
that golden broom,
those blue rosemaries?
Who painted the purple mountains
and the saffron, sunset sky?
The hermitage, the beehives,
the cleft of the river
the endless rolling water deep in rocks,
the pale-green of new fields,
all of it, even the white and pink
under the almond trees!



by Antonio Machado
 Has my heart gone to sleep?
Have the beehives of my dreams
stopped working, the waterwheel
of the mind run dry,
scoops turning empty,
only shadow inside?

No, my heart is not asleep.
It is awake, wide awake.
Not asleep, not dreaming— its eyes are opened wide watching distant signals, listening on the rim of vast silence.

by Antonio Machado
 The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.
"In return for the odor of my jasmine, I'd like all the odor of your roses.
" "I have no roses; all the flowers in my garden are dead.
" "Well then, I'll take the withered petals and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain.
" the wind left.
And I wept.
And I said to myself: "What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?" Translated by Robert Bly

by Antonio Machado
 Hills of silver plate,
grey heights, dark red rocks
through which the Duero bends
its crossbow arc
round Soria, shadowed oaks,
stone dry-lands, naked mountains,
white roads and river poplars,
twilights of Soria, warlike and mystical,
today I feel, for you, 
in my hearts depths, sadness,
sadness of love! Fields of Soria,
where it seems the stones have dreams,
you go with me! Hills of silver plate,
grey heights, dark red rocks.

by Antonio Machado
 Guadarrama, is it you, old friend,
mountains white and gray
that I used to see painted against the blue
those afternoons of the old days in Madrid?
Up your deep ravines
and past your bristling peaks
a thousand Guadarramas and a thousand suns
come riding with me, riding to your heart.



by Antonio Machado
 Soria, in blue mountains,
on the fields of violet,
how often I’ve dreamed of you
on the plain of flowers,
where the Guadalquivir runs
past golden orange-trees
to the sea.