La Guitarra
The cry of the guitar begins.
The crystals of dawn are breaking.
The cry of the guitar begins.
It’s useless to stop it.
It’s impossible to stop it.
Its cry monotonous as the weeping of water,as the weeping of wind over the snowfall.
It’s impossible to stop it.
It cries for distant things.
Sand of the scalding South seeking white camellias.
It mourns the arrow without target,evening without morning,and the first bird dead upon the branch.
Oh, guitar!
Heart wounded by five swords.

- Federico Garcia Lorca