SONNET
I know that my outline will be tranquil
in the north-wind of a sky without reflections,
mercury of watching, chaste mirror
where the pulse of my spirit is broken.
Because if ivy and the coolness of linen
are the law of the body I leave behind,
my outline in the sand will be the ancient
unembarrassed silence of the crocodile.
And though my tongue of frozen doves
will never hold the flavour of flame,
only the lost taste of broom,
I’ll be the free mark of oppressed laws
on the neck of the stiff branch
and on the endless aching dahlias.
Federico García Lorca
Translation by A. S. Kline