FEDERICO GARCÍA LORCA poem THE SPILLED BLOOD English TEXT En
Federico García Lorca
The Spilled Blood
(Sangre Derramada)
from:
Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías
2. The Spilled Blood
es: Sangre Derramada
Spanish literature, poetry
full text, translation into English
Lament for Ignacio Sanchez Mejias (Es: Llanto por Ignacio Sánchez Mejías) is a eulogy that the great poet Federico Garcìa Lorca wrote for his friend the bullfighter in the same year of his death. Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías is a poem in four parts:
1 – Cogida and death (Es: La cogida y la muerte) that you can read on yeyebook, here; punctuated by the obsessive refrain “At five in the Afternoon” (Es: A las cinco de la tarde) the alternative title with which the poem is known and which you can read below.
2 – The Spilled Blood (Es: La sangre derramada), marked by the verse “Que no quiero verla!” (No, I don’t want to see it!), that you can read below.
3 – The laid out body – Present body (Es: Cuerpo presente), that you can read on yeyebook, here.
4 – Absent soul (Alma ausente) that you can read on yeyebook, here.
The Spilled Blood (in spanish: La Sangre Derramada) that you can read below, is the second poetry by Federico García Lorca for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías. In “The Spilled Blood” poem by Federico Garcìa Lorca the color that dominates is red, although it is never named. It is the color of the blood that the poet does not want to see (“Que no quiero verla”), because it would give him too much pain and he invokes the arrival of the evening and the darkness not to see the blood of his friend Ignacio Sánchez Mejías.
In the menu above or on the side you can read the full text of the poem “La Sangre Derramada” (The Spilled Blood) by Federico García Lorca translated into other languages: Italian, French, German, Chinese, etc.
Enjoy the reading.
Federico García Lorca All the poetry > here
Federico García Lorca
The Spilled Blood
(La Sangre Derramada)
Spanish literature, poetry
full text, translation into English
I will not see it!
Tell the moon to come,
for I do not want to see the blood
of Ignacio on the sand.
I will not see it!
The moon wide open.
Horse of still clouds,
and the grey bull ring of dreams
with willows in the barreras.
I will not see it!
Let my memory kindle!
Warm the jasmines
of such minute whiteness!
I will not see it!
The cow of the ancient world
passed har sad tongue
over a snout of blood
spilled on the sand,
and the bulls of Guisando,
partly death and partly stone,
bellowed like two centuries
sated with threading the earth.
No.
I will not see it!
Ignacio goes up the tiers
with all his death on his shoulders.
He sought for the dawn
but the dawn was no more.
He seeks for his confident profile
and the dream bewilders him
He sought for his beautiful body
and encountered his opened blood
Do not ask me to see it!
I do not want to hear it spurt
each time with less strength:
that spurt that illuminates
the tiers of seats, and spills
over the cordury and the leather
of a thirsty multiude.
Who shouts that I should come near!
Do not ask me to see it!
His eyes did not close
when he saw the horns near,
but the terrible mothers
lifted their heads.
And across the ranches,
an air of secret voices rose,
shouting to celestial bulls,
herdsmen of pale mist.
There was no prince in Sevilla
who could compare to him,
nor sword like his sword
nor heart so true.
Like a river of lions
was his marvellous strength,
and like a marble toroso
his firm drawn moderation.
The air of Andalusian Rome
gilded his head
where his smile was a spikenard
of wit and intelligence.
What a great torero in the ring!
What a good peasant in the sierra!
How gentle with the sheaves!
How hard with the spurs!
How tender with the dew!
How dazzling the fiesta!
How tremendous with the final
banderillas of darkness!
But now he sleeps without end.
Now the moss and the grass
open with sure fingers
the flower of his skull.
And now his blood comes out singing;
singing along marshes and meadows,
sliden on frozen horns,
faltering soulles in the mist
stoumbling over a thousand hoofs
like a long, dark, sad tongue,
to form a pool of agony
close to the starry Guadalquivir.
Oh, white wall of Spain!
Oh, black bull of sorrow!
Oh, hard blood of Ignacio!
Oh, nightingale of his veins!
No.
I will not see it!
No chalice can contain it,
no swallows can drink it,
no frost of light can cool it,
nor song nor deluge og white lilies,
no glass can cover mit with silver.
No.
I will not see it!
…
..
.
Federico García Lorca
The Spilled Blood
from: Lamento per Ignacio Sánchez Mejías (1935)
Spanish: La Sangre Derramada
Llanto por Ignacio Sánchez Mejías
Spanish literature, poetry
The Spilled Blood Original spanish text > here
Federico García Lorca All the poetry > here
Federico García Lorca
Federico García Lorca belongs to the Generation of ’27, a group of Spanish artists who met for the first time in Seville in 1927 to commemorate the poet Luis de Gongora.
Federico García Lorca Short Biography > here
Ignacio Sànchez Mejías
Ignacio Sànchez Mejías (1891-1935) was a poet and intellectual supporter of the Generation of ’27 Group and was a great friend of the poet Federico García Lorca; passionate about Andalusian folklore, he became a bullfighter. Retired as soon as his youth passed, he resumed at 42 as a choice of death; he will in fact be killed by the bull during his last bullfight in the Manzanares arena, in 1935.
