Lorca

Some time ago, before I picked up smoking, I picked up a book of poems by Federico Garcia Lorca. I vaguely remember a line about a finite tic of a cigarette or cigar's ash and thinking to myself that he expressed the idea of time nicely with that line.

Anyway, came across this poem recently. I liked it very much.

Pequeno Poema Infinito

To take the wrong road
is to arrive at the snow,
and to arrive at the snow
is to get down on all fours for centuries and eat the cemetery grass.

To take the wrong road
is to arrive at woman
woman who isn't afraid of light,
woman who murders two roosters in one second,
light which isn't afraid of roosters,
and roosters who don't know how to sing on top of the snow.

But if the snow chooses the wrong heart
then it might meet the wind from the south,
and since the air cares nothing for groans,
we will have to get down on all fours again and eat the cemetery grass.

...

Since women fear light,
and light trembles before roosters,
and roosters only fly above the snow --
we will have to eat the cemetery grass forever.

-- Federico Garcia Lorca