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The Guitar
It begins, the lament
of the guitar.
The wineglass of dawn
is broken.
It begins, the lament
of the guitar.
It’s useless to silence it.
Impossible
to silence it.
It cries monotonously
as the water cries,
as the wind cries
over the snow.
Impossible
to silence it.
It cries for
distant things.
Sands of the hot South
that demand white camellias.
It cries arrows with no targets,
evening with no morning,
and the first dead bird
on the branch.
Oh, the guitar!
Heart wounded deep
by five swords.
-Lorca.
my friend and fellow blogger, wilhelmina (http://margotvellocet.blogspot.com/), brought this poem to my attention. She said it reminded her of my favorite painting, the old guitarist by Picasso. I agree, though my feelings on it are so deeply imbedded in my own passions that it essentially takes on a different meaning.
eternal devotion to music.
that even at the brink of death, at the point of destitution, music will forever remain.
AGH!! beautiful.
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