Touched by God's light Born in Granada.
Federico used to presume
to be born beside the Alhambra.
Bright mind, deep heart, a soul to be admired.
Between lines, he used to be lost,
a pen was his best friend.
Dalí was a mate, both near from chilhood.
His friends were many,
but his real ones never too close.
He was a shadow facing the light,
but a light in the shades.
Federico was born in Granada,
his beloved land.
He projected his art with a pen,
nobody could understand.
Artist he was born, playing the piano
he used to play music for ears,
but at writing he used to be the best.
Born at a wrong time,
Lorca was misunderstood.
Difficult to understand how life mistreated it him.
Born as a poet that will never be forgotten.
Writing line to line, he was killed,
young as he was,
he had no time to write the best line of his life.
Federico García Lorca,
the one I will always bow for.
Poet I was born,
Granada is my land, I play, I live,
I disappeared, I stay with poets
The morning came,
but no one received her...
mouths were not
opened,
bodies were closed...
so, so quickly
the morning went away..
Sans speak a word ,
sans un adieu.. !
Morning came
and no one
received her...
The mouths were not open
and the bodies were closed...
So she passed
and did not say a word...
A Love Poem for Federico Garcia Lorca
Last night, I dreamed of you,
my raven-haired gitano.
Dreamt of your succulent mouth,
Rich and full,
like the black grapes from the vineyards,
near the unmarked place where you lie.
“Te amo mi amor” you tenderly whisper in my ear.
Your kisses, sweeter than the wine of the valley,
Which I drank ages ago.
I could melt in your arms,
drift down to where you lie—
with your white bones,
buried beneath the thick, rich earth,
stained with your blood.
“Tu eres mi carino,” I whisper.
Federico, you have been dead for so long—
Your voice silenced by Franco’s fascist bullets.
And today, in my country,
Freedom is on tenuous ground.
Will bullets silence my voice too?
I don’t know the answer
to this question.
So, all I can do is write
live my life, think of you, and say,
“El gente unidas, jamas estan vincidas.”
When they murdered him,they went everywhere
To cemeteries,to caffees, to churches
But they didn`t find him! No! He wasn`t there!
They never found him!
The trees cried when he died
The trees from the garden of forbidden desires
The roses cried when he died
The roses of sad poet`s garden
Now he stands in Plaza de Santa Ana
And a secret voice of hidden love whispers-
It whispers to the tourists:Green! I love you greenly!
Only the wind, the sun, the moon,the stars,
The flowers, the gypsies and the poets
Hear his words of blood and gold
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.