Tetrameter (Second) Version
Wounds of Love
by Federico García Lorca
This light, this hungry flame that devours.
This landscape: a gray, encircling ocean.
This sorrow for a single notion.
These anguished skies, this world, these hours.
These tears of blood that decorate
the unplucked lyre, the torch impure.
This crush of waves I must endure.
My heart that houses the scorpion’s hate.
They’re wreaths of love, a bed for the hurt,
sleepless, I dream of your cherished presence
in ruins of my shipwrecked heart.
And though I seek the highest sense,
your heart gives me a valley fraught
with hemlock and bitter experience.
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Edits:
S1L1: This light, this fire that devours, > This light, this hungry flame that devours.
S1L2: this gray landscape encircling, > this gray landscape, like a circling ocean, > This landscape, a gray, encircling ocean. > This landscape: a gray, encircling ocean.
S1L3: this sorrow for just one inkling, > this grief for just one single notion,> this sorrow for a single notion, > This sorrow for a single notion.
S1L4: these anguished skies, these worldly hours, > these anguished skies, this world, these hours, > These anguished skies, this world, these hours.
S2L1: these tears of blood that ornament > these tears of blood obscenely gild > These tears of blood obscenely gild > These tears of blood obscenely paint > These tears of blood that decorate
S2L2: the lyre unplucked, the torch, profane, > the unplucked lyre, the torch, profane; > the unplucked lyre, the torch, profane. > the unplucked lyre, the torch profane.> the unplucked lyre, the torch impure.
S2L3: this crush of waves inflicts such pain; > This crush of waves inflicts such pain. > This crush of waves that brings such pain. > This crush of waves that brings me pain. > This crush of waves I must endure.
S2L4: the scorpion taints my sentiment. > the scorpion’s taint my heart has filled. > My heart with scorpion’s taint is filled. > My heart is filled with scorpion’s taint. > My heart that hosts the scorpion’s hate.> My heart that bears the scorpion’s hate. > My heart that houses the scorpion’s hate.
S3L1: They’re earths of love, for the hurt, a cot, > They’re wreaths of love, a bed for the hurt,
S3L2: where sleepless, I dream of you, intense, > where sleepless, I dream your cherished presence, > Awake, I dream your cherished presence > I dream, awake, your cherished presence > sleepless, I dream of your cherished presence
S3L3: in the wreckage of my sad heart. > in wreckage of my downcast heart. > in wreckage of my shipwrecked heart. > in the ruins of my shipwrecked heart.
S4L3: with hemlock and fervid prescience. > with hemlock and bitter prescience. > with lock and bitter experience.
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Pentameter (First) Version
Wounds of Love
by Federico García Lorca
This light, this hungry fire that can devour,
this gray landscape, threatening to surround me,
this one, overwhelming idea, trying to drown me,
this anguish in the heavens, the world, the hour,
this weeping of blood that decorates the lyre,
as yet unplucked, the torch that would excite me,
this heaviness that strikes me from the sea,
this scorpion that has made my heart its bower:
they are garlands of love, for the wounded, a cot,
where sleepless, I dream of your beloved presence
among the ruins of my shipwrecked heart.
And though I seek the highest form of prudence,
your heart gives me a valley that is fraught
with hemlock and the passion of bitter prescience.
————————
Edits:
S2L2:as yet unplucked, the torch that would arouse me, > as yet unplucked, the torch that would excite me,
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Original (from
Ciudad Seva, casa digital del escritor Luis López Nieves)
Llagas de Amor
Esta luz, este fuego que devora.
Este paisaje gris que me rodea.
Este dolor por una sola idea.
Esta angustia de cielo, mundo y hora.
Este llanto de sangre que decora
lira sin pulso ya, lúbrica tea.
Este peso del mar que me golpea.
Este alacrán que por mi pecho mora.
Son guirnaldas de amor, cama de herido,
donde sin sueño, sueño tu presencia
entre las ruinas de mi pecho hundido.
Y aunque busco la cumbre de prudencia
me da tu corazón valle tendido
con cicuta y pasión de amarga ciencia.
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Crib:
Wounds of Love
This light, this fire that devours.
This gray landscape that surrounds me.
This pain/sorrow for one single idea.
This anguish of the sky, the world, and hour/time.
This weeping of blood that decorates
the lyre still without plucking, the lusty torch.
This weight of the sea that strikes me.
This scorpion that dwells in my breast.
They are garlands of love, a bed for the wounded
where, without sleeping/dreaming, I dream [of] your presence
among the ruins of my sunken/downcast/submerged heart.
And although I seek the summit of prudence,
your heart gives me a valley lying
with hemlock and the passion/fervor/heat of bitter knowledge.