The guitar raises up

Its cry.
The glasses of dawn are crushed.
The guitar raises up its cry.
It is useless to silence it.
It is impossible to silence it.


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It weeps a monotone
As water weeps,
As wind weeps
Against the snowfall.
It is impossible to stop it.
It weaps for things
Far Away.
Sand of the hot south
That pleads for white camellias.
It weeps, arrow without a target,
Evening without a morrow,
And the first bird dead
On the branch.
Oh, guitar!
A heart mortally wounded
By five blades.

--Federico García Lorca
La guitarra in El poema del cante jondo (1921)(S.H. transl.)