Federico García Lorca

(5 June 1898 – 19 August 1936 / Fuente Vaqueros)

Federico García Lorca Poems

1. Train Ride 5/29/2015
2. The Old Lizard 3/26/2012
3. Peaceful Waters:Variation 3/29/2010
4. Ode To Walt Whitman 3/29/2010
5. The Guitar-La Guitarra 3/29/2010
6. Piccolo Valzer Viennese 1/1/2004
7. Declaring 3/29/2010
8. Saturday Paseo: Adelina 1/3/2003
9. The Song Of The Barren Orange Tree 3/29/2010
10. Ode To Salvador Dali 3/29/2010
11. Serenata 1/3/2003
12. Paisaje 1/1/2004
13. Adam 3/29/2010
14. Sonnet 1/1/2004
15. Cantos Nuevos 3/29/2010
16. Preciosa Y El Aire 1/1/2004
17. The Little Mute Boy 1/3/2003
18. The Faithless Wife 1/3/2003
19. Debussy [with English Translation] 3/30/2010
20. Sonnet Of The Sweet Complaint 1/3/2003
21. The Gypsy And The Wind 1/3/2003
22. Nocturnos De La Ventana 1/1/2004
23. Romance Sonámbulo 1/1/2004
24. MuriÓ Al Amanecer 1/1/2004
25. Muerte De AntoÑIto El Camborio 1/1/2004
26. Landscape Of A Vomiting Multitude 1/3/2003
27. Balada Amarilla Iv 1/1/2004
28. Weeping 1/3/2003
29. La Casada Infiel 1/1/2004
30. Arbolé, Arbolé 1/1/2004
31. El Balcón 1/3/2003
32. Adivinanza De La Guitarra 1/1/2004
33. Gacela Of The Dead Child 1/3/2003
34. Little Viennese Waltz 1/3/2003
35. Ditty Of First Desire 1/3/2003
36. Gacela Of Unforseen Love 1/3/2003
37. Dawn 3/29/2010
38. Las Seis Cuerdas 1/1/2004
39. Lament For Ignacio Sánchez Mejías 1/3/2003
40. Ballad Of The Moon 1/3/2003
Best Poem of Federico García Lorca

City That Does Not Sleep

In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins.
The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream,
and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the
street corner
the unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the
stars.

Nobody is asleep on earth. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
In a graveyard far off there is a corpse
who has moaned for three years
because of a dry countryside on his knee;
and that boy they buried this ...

Read the full of City That Does Not Sleep

Gacela Of The Dark Death

I want to sleep the dream of the apples,
to withdraw from the tumult of cemetries.
I want to sleep the dream of that child
who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas.

I don't want to hear again that the dead do not lose their blood,
that the putrid mouth goes on asking for water.
I don't want to learn of the tortures of the grass,
nor of the moon with a serpent's mouth

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