Living Sky by Federico Garcia Lorca

I won't complain if I don't find what I was looking for. Near the dried stones and the empty insects I won't see the sun dueling with creatures of living flesh.

But I'll go to the first landscape of shocks, liquids and murmurs that smell of a newborn child, and there where surface is avoided to understand what I seek must have a target of joy as I fly in the midst of love and sand.

The frost of spent eyes doesn't reach there or the bellow of a tree murdered by the worm. All forms are interlaced there with the same frenetic expression of progress.

You can't advance through the swarms of corollas because the air dissolves your sugar teeth or caress the fleeting fern leaf without feeling the ultimate ivory surprise.

There, under the roots, in the medulla of air, we understand the truth of mistaken things, the chrome swimmer who spies the finest wave and the flock of nocturnal cattle with the tiny red feet of a woman.

I won't complain if I don't find what I was looking for, but I'll go to the first landscape of dampness and pulse to understand what I seek must have a target of joy as I fly in the midst of love and sand.

I fly in cool air over empty beds, over collected breezes and ships run aground. I stumble, waver, through hard, fixed eternity and a love at last without dawn. Love. Visible love!

Eden Mills, Vermont August 24, 1929

— Poet in New York by Federico García Lorca (Page 81)