Little Viennese Waltz
In Vienna there are ten little girls,a shoulder for death to cry on,and a forest of dried pigeons.
There is a fragment of tomorrowin the museum of winter frost.
There is a thousand-windowed dance hall.
Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Take this close-mouthed waltz.
Little waltz, little waltz, little waltz,of itself of death, and of brandythat dips its tail in the sea.
I love you,
I love you,
I love you,with the armchair and the book of death,down the melancholy hallway,in the iris's darkened garret,
Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Take this broken-waisted waltz.
In Vienna there are four mirrorsin which your mouth and the ehcoes play.
There is a death for pianothat paints little boys blue.
There are beggars on the roof.
There are fresh garlands of tears.
Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Take this waltz that dies in my arms.
Because I love you,
I love you, my love,in the attic where the children play,dreaming ancient lights of Hungarythrough the noise, the balmy afternoon,seeing sheep and irises of snowthrough the dark silence of your
Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Take this " I will always love you"
In Vienna I will dance with youin a costume witha river's head.
See how the hyacinths line my banks!
I will leave my mouth between your legs,my soul in a photographs and lilies,and in the dark wake of your footsteps,my love, my love,
I will have to leaveviolin and grave, the waltzing ribbons.
Federico Garcia Lorca
Other author posts
Gacela Of The Dark Death
I want to sleep the sleep of the apples, I want to get far away from the busyness of the cemeteries I want to sleep the sleep of that childwho longed to cut his heart open far out at sea I don't want them to tell me again how the co...
The Guitar
The weeping of the guitarbegins The goblets of dawnare smashed The weeping of the guitarbegins Uselessto silence it
Ode to Salvador Dali
A rose in the high garden you desire A wheel in the pure syntax of steel The mountain stripped bare of Impressionist fog, The grays watching over the last balustrades
Sonnet Of The Sweet Complaint
Never let me lose the marvel of your statue-like eyes, or the accent the solitary rose of your breath places on my cheek at night I am afraid of being, on this shore, a branchless trunk, and what I most regret is having no flower, pulp, or cl...