THE SPLIT BLOOD

I cannot bear to see it!
Go and tell the moon to come,
that I cannot bear to see the blood
of Ignacio staining the sand.

I cannot bear to see it!

The moon sheds light far and wide.
A horse of still clouds,
and the grey dream-arena
with willows in the barriers.

I cannot bear to see it!

How the memory burns.
Look out for the jasmine
with its small white beads!

I cannot bear to see it!

The cow of the old world
licked with her sad tongue
her muzzle stained with the blood
that was spilt all over the sand,
and the bulls of Guisando,
as if dead, as if carved in stone,
bellowed like two centuries,
tired of treading the earth.
No.

I cannot bear to see it!

Ignacio climbs the steps
with all his death on his back.
He was looking for the dawn,
and there was no dawn.
He seeks the certain outline,
and his dream confuses him.
He was looking for his splendid body
and he met his flowing blood.
Do not tell me to look at it!
I do not want to feel the gush
weakening at every pulse;
that gush which lightens up
the benches, and flows out
over the corduroy and the leather
of the seated crowds.

Who is shouting for me to appear?
Do not tell me to glance at it!

His eyes did not close
when he saw the horns near,
but the dreadful Mothers
raised their heads.
And across the cattle-lands
was heard a song of secret voices
calling to the heavenly bulls,
herdsmen of the pale mist.
There was no prince in Seville
who could compare with him,
no sword like his sword
nor any heart so stout.
Like a river of lions
his wonderful strength,
and like a marble bust
his chiselled wisdom.
An air of Andalusian Rome
gilded his head
where his laugh was a lily
of intelligence and charm.
What a great torero in the ring!
A fine peak in the mountain range!
How gentle with ears of corn!
How hard with the spurs!
How tender with the dew!
How dazzling in the carnival!
How dreadful with the last
barbed darts of darkness!

But now he sleeps in endless sleep.
Now the mosses and the grass
open with sure fingers
the flower of his skull.
And his blood now comes singing,
singing in the marshes and the meadows,
slipping on icy horns,
hesitating lifeless in the mist,
stumbling with thousands of hooves,
like a broad, dark, sad tongue,
to form a pool of agony
flowing into the Guadalquivir of the stars.
Oh, that white wall of Spain!
Oh, that black bull of pain!
Oh, the tough blood of Ignacio!
Oh, the nightingale of his veins!
No.
I cannot bear to see it!
Why is there no chalice to hold it,
why no swallows to lap it up;
why no frost of light to freeze it,
no song, no flood of arum lilies,
no crystal overlaying it with silver?
No.
I cannot bear to see it!