Federico Garcia Lorca
Federico Garcia Lorca
Federico del Sagrado Corazón de Jesús García Lorca, known as Federico García Lorcawas a Spanish poet, playwright, and theatre director...
NationalitySpanish
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth5 June 1898
CountrySpain
color wind branches
Green how I want you green. Green wind. Green branches.
children wind baptism
The duende....Where is the duende? Through the empty archway a wind of the spirit enters, blowing insistently over the heads of the dead, in search of new landscapes and unknown accents: a wind with the odour of a child's saliva, crushed grass, and medusa's veil, announcing the endless baptism of freshly created things.
wind knives desire
I put my head out of my window and see how much the wind’s knife wants to slice it off. On this unseen guillotine, I’ve placed the eyeless head of all my desires.
love wind green
Verde que te quiero verde. Verde viento. Verde ramas. Green I love you green. Green Wind. Green branches.
horse love-you wind
Green how I love you green. Green wind. Green boughs. The ship on the sea And the horse on the mountain.
ocean moon window
Moon like a large stainedglass window that breaks on the ocean.
girl character past
There's no doubt that I really have a feeling for the theater. These past few days it has occurred to me to do a comedy whose chief characters are photographic enlargements. Those people we see in doorways. Newlyweds, sergeants, dead girls, an anonymous crowd full of mustaches and wrinkles. It should be terrible. If I focus it well, it will possess pathos without consolation. In the midst of those people I will place an authentic fairy.
serenity silence apprenticeship
In each thing there is an insinuation of death. Stillness, silence, serenity are all apprenticeships.
glasses tongue
My tongue is pierced with glass.
shining sometimes spit
Even money, which shines so much, spits sometimes.
pain eye air
Everyone understands the pain that accompanies death, but genuine pain doesn't live in the spirit, nor in the air, nor in our lives, nor on these terraces of billowing smoke. The genuine pain that keeps everything awake is a tiny, infinite burn on the innocent eyes of other systems.
white wife today
The bride, the white bride today a maiden, tomorrow a wife.
distance doors silence
We're all like the little sailor. From the harbors we hear the strains of accordions and the murky soapy noises of the docks, from the mountains we receive the dish of silence that the shepherds eat, but we don't hear more than our own distances. And what distances without end and without doors and without mountains!
dark light black
The world is a shoulder of dark meat (black flesh of an old mule). And the light is on the other side.