Frederico Garcia Lorca
âI fear losing the wonderof your statue-like eyes, and the accentthat, during the night, the solitary rose of your breath places on my cheek.I grieve to be on this shorenothing but a trunk without branches; and what grieves meis not having the flower, pulp or clay,for the worm of my suffering.And if you are my hidden treasure,if you are my cross, my wet sorrow,if I am the dog of your domain,doâŠ














