Garcia Lorca in Compostela
It rains in Santiago
My sweet love,
White camellia of the air,
Shining dimly in the sun.
Filtered water
By angels of fog,
Falls like glass
Over Compostela.
Oh, how it echoes
In the drum of the stones!
The crazed moon
And the orphaned stars
Weep softly
Over Compostela.
Oh, how it hurts us
The sound of its lament!
Who plucks the weeping
Of the other camellias?
Who spreads tears
Over Compostela!
Oh, what a tender drizzle
The poet dreamed!