by Federico Garca Lorca （Translated by Cola Franzen）
The weeping of the guitar begins.
The goblets1 of dawn are smashed.
The weeping of the guitar begins.
Useless to silence it.
Impossible to silence it.
It weeps monotonously2
as water weeps
as the wind weeps
over snowfields.
Impossible to silence it.
It weeps for distant things.
Hot southern sands
yearning3 for white camellias.
Weeps arrow without target
evening without morning
and the first dead bird
on the branch.
Oh， guitar！
Heart mortally wounded
by five swords
