City That Does Not Sleep
In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their s.
The living iguanas will e and bite the men who do not dream,
and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the
street er
the unbelievable alligator quiet beh the tender protest of the
stars.
Nobody is asleep oh. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
In a graveyard far off there is a corpse
who has moaned for three years
because of a dry tryside on his knee;
and that boy they buried this m cried so much
it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet.
Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful!
We fall dowairs in order to eat the moist earth
or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead
dahlias.
But fetfulness does , dreams do ;
flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths
in a thicket of new veins,
and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever
and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulders.
One day
the horses will live in the saloons
and the enraged ants
will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the
eyes of cows.
Another day
we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead
and still walking through a try of gray sponges and silent boats
we will watch flash and roses spring from our tongue.
Careful! Be careful! Be careful!
The men who still have marks of the claw and the thuorm,
and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the iion
of the bridge,
or that dead man who possesses now only his head and a shoe,
we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes
are waiting,
where the bears teeth are waiting,
where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting,
and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder.
Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is sleeping.
If someone does close his eyes,
a whip, boys, a whip!
Let there be a landscape of open eyes
and bitter wounds on fire.
No one is sleeping in this world. No one, no one.
I have said it before.
No one is sleeping.
But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the
night,
opeage trapdoors so he see in the moonlight
the lying goblets, and the poison, and the skull of the theaters.
Federico García Lorca