Sonnet of the Sweet Complaint by Federico Garcia Lorca

Never let me lose the marvel
of your statue-like eyes, or the accent
the solitary rose of your breath
places on my cheek at night.

I am afraid of being, on this shore,
a branchless trunk, and what I most regret
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.

by Federico Garcia Lorca

Other poems by 'Federico Garcia Lorca'

Romance Sonombulo

Ballad of the Moon

City That Does Not Sleep

The Weeping

Lament For Ignacio Sanchez Mejias

Train Ride

Weeping

Arbol?, Arbol? . . .

Ditty of First Desire

Before the Dawn

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