Jaymerosas

THE PRAYER OF THE ROSES (POEM BY FEDERICO GARCÍA LORCA)
Hail roses, solemn stars!
Roses, roses, living jewels of infinity;
mouths, breasts and vague perfumed souls;
tears, kisses! grains, pollen of the moon;
sweet lotuses of stagnant souls;
hail roses, solemn stars!

Friends of poets
and of my heart,
hail roses, stars
of luminous Zion!
Panidas, yes, Panidas;
the tragic Ruben
so called in his verses
the languid Verlaine,
who was a bloody rose
and yellow at the same time.
Let me call you thus,
Panidas, yes, Panidas,
essences of an Eden,
of dancing lips,
of a woman's breasts.
You, next to the marble,
are its blood,
but if you were the scents
of the orchard
where the fauns dwell,
you have in your being
a divine essence:

Mary of Nazareth,
who hides in your breasts
the whiteness of her honey;
a unique and divine flower,
a flower of God and Lucifer.

Eternal flower. I conjure the sigh.
Grandiose, divine, enervating flower,
a flower of faun and Christian virgin,
a flower of furious and thundering Venus,
a celestial and sedative Marian flower,
a flower that is life and a blue fountain
of youthful and arrogant love
that in its calyx clarifies its yearnings.

What would life be without roses!
A path without rhythm or blood,
an abyss without night or day.
They lend their wings to the soul,
for without them the soul would die,
without stars, without faith, without the clear
illusions that the soul wanted.

They are the refuge of many hearts
They are stars that feel love,
They are silences that slowly escaped
From the eternal nocturnal poet and dreamer,
And with air and with sky and with light they were formed,
That is why all of them at birth imitated
The color and the shape of our heart.
They are the women among all the flowers,
Warm sancta sanctorum of eternal poetry,
Grand neáporis of all thought,
Perfume cups that the wind drinks blue,
Chromatic swarms, pearls of feeling,
Adornments of the lyres, poets without accent.
Scented lovers of sweet nightingales.

Mothers of all that is beautiful,
you are eternal, magnificent, sad
like quiet October afternoons,
that when dying, melancholic, vague,
an autumn night covers them,
because poetry is what you are
you are full of autumn, of afternoons,
of sorrows, of melancholy,
of sadness, of fatal loves,
of the grey twilight of agony,
that you are sad, poetry is
that is the water of your rose bushes.
Holy, divine and various roses,
hopes, desires, passion,
I deposit in you, friends;
give me an empty chalice, already dead,
that in its bottom, withered and deserted,
I will pour my fatal heart.
Hail roses, solemn stars!
Full of grace and love,
all heaven and earth are yours
and blessed will be the teachers
who proclaim the voice of your flower.
And blessed will be the beautiful fruit
of your beautiful solemn gospel,
and blessed your perennial aroma,
and blessed your pale dawn.
Solitary, divine and grave,
sobbing, for you are flowers of love,
sobbing for the children who cut you down,
sobbing for being soul and being flower,
sobbing for the bad poets
who cannot sing to you with pain,
sobbing for the moon that loves you,
sobbing for so many hearts
that in shadows listen to you silently,
and sobbing also for my love.

Oh!, carnal censers of the soul,
Chopinesque romances of scent,
sobbing for my hidden kisses
that my mouth gave you.
Sobbing for the mist of the grave
where my great heart bleeds,
and in my hour of extinguished star,
may my eyes close to the sun,
be my white and severe shroud,