Federico Garcia Lorca

In our eyes the roads are endless. Two are crossroads of the shadow.

Not for a moment, beautiful aged Walt Whitman, have I failed to see your beard full of butterflies.

With their souls of patent leather, they come down the road. Hunched and nocturnal, where they breathe they impose, silence of dark rubber, and fear of fine sand.

As I have not worried to be born, I do not worry to die.

All ones personality is embedded in gloves and hats after theyve been good and used. Show me a glove and Ill tell you the character of its owner.

To see you naked is to recall the Earth.

I'll always be happy if they'd leave me alone in that delightful and unknown furthest corner, apart from struggles, putrefactions and nonsense; the ultimate corner of sugar and toast, where the mermaids catch the branches of the willows and the heart opens to a flute's sharpness.

The two elements the traveler first captures in the big city are extra human architecture and furious rhythm. Geometry and anguish.

In Spain, the dead are more alive than the dead of any other country in the world.

New York is something awful, something monstrous. I like to walk the streets, lost, but I recognize that New York is the world's greatest lie. New York is Senegal with machines.

The only things that the United States has given to the world are skyscrapers, jazz, and cocktails. That is all. And in Cuba, in our America, they make much better cocktails.

Besides black art, there is only automation and mechanization.

The bride the white bride today a maiden tomorrow a wife.

Green how I want you green. Green wind. Green branches.

I was lucky enough to see with my own eyes the recent stock-market crash, where they lost several million dollars, a rabble of dead money that went sliding off into the sea.

There is nothing more poetic and terrible than the skyscrapers' battle with the heavens that cover them.