Your Childhood In Menton - Lorca

Yes, your childhood: now a fable of fountains. The train and the woman who fills the sky. Your shy loneliness in hotels and your pure mask of another sign. The sea's childhood and your silence where the crystals of wisdom shattered. Your rigid ignorance where my torso was circumscribed by fire. What I gave you, Apollonian man, was the standard of love, fits of tears with an estranged nightingale. But ruin fed upon you, you whittled yourself to nothing for the sake of fleeting, aimless dreams. Thoughts before you, yesterday's light, traces and signs of what might be... Your waist of restless sand follows only trails that do not climb. But in every corner I must look for your warm soul that is without you and doesn't understand you, with the sorrow of Apollo stopped in his tracks, the sorrow with which I shattered your mask. It's there, lion, there, sky's fury, where I'll let you graze on my cheeks; there, blue horse of my insanity, pulse of the nebula and hand that counts the minutes. There I'll look for the scorpions' stones and the clothes of the girl who was your mother, midnight tears and torn cloth that wiped moonlight from the temples of the dead man. Yes, your childhood: now a fable of fountains. Strange soul, tiny and adrift, ripped from the empty space of my veins--I must look until I find you. The same love as ever, but never the same! Yes, I do love! Love! Leave me alone, all of you. And don't try to cover my mouth, you who seek the wheat of Saturn in snowfields, or castrate animals on behalf of a sky, anatomy's clinic and jungle. Love, love, love. The sea's childhood. Your warm soul that is without you and doesn't understand you. Love, love, the flight of the doe through the endless breast of whiteness. And your childhood, love, your childhood. The train and the woman who fills the sky. Not you, not me, not the air, not the leaces. Yes, your childhood: now a fable of fountains.