Just your hot heart,

                    nothing more.

 

                    My Paradise, a field,

                    no nightingales,

                    no strings,

                    a river, discrete,

                    and a little fountain.

 

                    Without the spurs,

                    of the wind, in the branches,

                    without the star,

                    that wants to be leaf.

 

                    An enormous light

                    that will be

                    the glow

                    of the Other,

                    in a field of broken gazes.

 

                    A still calm

                    where our kisses,

                    sonorous circles

                    of echoes,

                    will open, far-off.

 

                    And your hot heart,

                    nothing more.

 

Federico G.Lorca

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...για κάποιον, που..."δυο κάρβουνα τα μάτια του στο μέλι βουτηγμένα"...