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La Guitarra

 

The guitar starts crying
early morning, broken glass;
the guitar starts crying,
and there’s no hushing her,
she won’t simmer down;
on and on,
she cries like the running waters,
the way the wind cries
when it snows;
she won’t simmer down,
crying over far off things:
the hot southern sand
pleading for white camellias,
an arrow with no mark,
an afternoon and no tomorrow,
the first bird on the branch to die;
O guitar!
wounded heart
with five swords fixed.

FGL (1931)
PSY (Feb. 2025)

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