So of the Sweet plaint
Never let me lose the marvel
of your statue-like eyes, or the at
the solitary rose of your breath
play cheek at night.
I am afraid of being, on this shore,
a brarunk, and what I mret
is having no flower, pulp, or clay
for the worm of my despair.
If you are my hidden treasure,
if you are my cross, my dampened pain,
if I am a dog, and you alone my master,
never let me lose what I have gained,
and adorn the branches of your river
with leaves of my estranged Autumn.
Federico García Lorca