Llanto (豆瓣)

表演者: Federico García Lorca / Vicente Pradal
介质: Audio CD
发行时间: 2005-12-31
出版者: ANG
条形码: 0724354571725

豆瓣评分

10.0

11人评价

5星

81.8%
4星

18.2%
3星

0.0%
2星

0.0%
1星

0.0%

想听在听听过

评价:

简介 · · · · · ·

　　Lament for Ignacio Sanchez Mejias
　　
　　1. Cogida and death
　　
　　At five in the afternoon.
　　It was exactly five in the afternoon.
　　A boy brought the white sheet
　　at five in the afternoon.
　　A frail of lime ready prepared
　　at five in the afternoon.
　　The rest was death, and death alone.
　　
　　The wind carrie... (展开全部) 　　Lament for Ignacio Sanchez Mejias
　　
　　1. Cogida and death
　　
　　At five in the afternoon.
　　It was exactly five in the afternoon.
　　A boy brought the white sheet
　　at five in the afternoon.
　　A frail of lime ready prepared
　　at five in the afternoon.
　　The rest was death, and death alone.
　　
　　The wind carried away the cottonwool
　　at five in the afternoon.
　　And the oxide scattered crystal and nickel
　　at five in the afternoon.
　　Now the dove and the leopard wrestle
　　at five in the afternoon.
　　And a thigh with a desolated horn
　　at five in the afternoon.
　　The bass-string struck up
　　at five in the afternoon.
　　Arsenic bells and smoke
　　at five in the afternoon.
　　Groups of silence in the corners
　　at five in the afternoon.
　　And the bull alone with a high heart!
　　At five in the afternoon.
　　When the sweat of snow was coming
　　at five in the afternoon,
　　when the bull ring was covered with iodine
　　at five in the afternoon.
　　Death laid eggs in the wound
　　at five in the afternoon.
　　At five in the afternoon.
　　At five o'clock in the afternoon.
　　
　　A coffin on wheels is his bed
　　at five in the afternoon.
　　Bones and flutes resound in his ears
　　at five in the afternoon.
　　Now the bull was bellowing through his forehead
　　at five in the afternoon.
　　The room was iridiscent with agony
　　at five in the afternoon.
　　In the distance the gangrene now comes
　　at five in the afternoon.
　　Horn of the lily through green groins
　　at five in the afternoon.
　　The wounds were burning like suns
　　at five in the afternoon.
　　At five in the afternoon.
　　Ah, that fatal five in the afternoon!
　　It was five by all the clocks!
　　It was five in the shade of the afternoon!
　　
　　
　　
　　2. The Spilled Blood
　　
　　I will not see it!
　　
　　Tell the moon to come,
　　for I do not want to see the blood
　　of Ignacio on the sand.
　　
　　I will not see it!
　　
　　The moon wide open.
　　Horse of still clouds,
　　and the grey bull ring of dreams
　　with willows in the barreras.
　　
　　I will not see it!
　　
　　Let my memory kindle!
　　Warm the jasmines
　　of such minute whiteness!
　　
　　I will not see it!
　　
　　The cow of the ancient world
　　passed har sad tongue
　　over a snout of blood
　　spilled on the sand,
　　and the bulls of Guisando,
　　partly death and partly stone,
　　bellowed like two centuries
　　sated with threading the earth.
　　No.
　　I will not see it!
　　
　　Ignacio goes up the tiers
　　with all his death on his shoulders.
　　He sought for the dawn
　　but the dawn was no more.
　　He seeks for his confident profile
　　and the dream bewilders him
　　He sought for his beautiful body
　　and encountered his opened blood
　　Do not ask me to see it!
　　I do not want to hear it spurt
　　each time with less strength:
　　that spurt that illuminates
　　the tiers of seats, and spills
　　over the cordury and the leather
　　of a thirsty multiude.
　　Who shouts that I should come near!
　　Do not ask me to see it!
　　
　　His eyes did not close
　　when he saw the horns near,
　　but the terrible mothers
　　lifted their heads.
　　And across the ranches,
　　an air of secret voices rose,
　　shouting to celestial bulls,
　　herdsmen of pale mist.
　　There was no prince in Sevilla
　　who could compare to him,
　　nor sword like his sword
　　nor heart so true.
　　Like a river of lions
　　was his marvellous strength,
　　and like a marble toroso
　　his firm drawn moderation.
　　The air of Andalusian Rome
　　gilded his head
　　where his smile was a spikenard
　　of wit and intelligence.
　　What a great torero in the ring!
　　What a good peasant in the sierra!
　　How gentle with the sheaves!
　　How hard with the spurs!
　　How tender with the dew!
　　How dazzling the fiesta!
　　How tremendous with the final
　　banderillas of darkness!
　　
　　But now he sleeps without end.
　　Now the moss and the grass
　　open with sure fingers
　　the flower of his skull.
　　And now his blood comes out singing;
　　singing along marshes and meadows,
　　sliden on frozen horns,
　　faltering soulles in the mist
　　stoumbling over a thousand hoofs
　　like a long, dark, sad tongue,
　　to form a pool of agony
　　close to the starry Guadalquivir.
　　Oh, white wall of Spain!
　　Oh, black bull of sorrow!
　　Oh, hard blood of Ignacio!
　　Oh, nightingale of his veins!
　　No.
　　I will not see it!
　　No chalice can contain it,
　　no swallows can drink it,
　　no frost of light can cool it,
　　nor song nor deluge og white lilies,
　　no glass can cover mit with silver.
　　No.
　　I will not see it!
　　
　　
　　
　　3. The Laid Out Body
　　
　　Stone is a forehead where dreames grieve
　　without curving waters and frozen cypresses.
　　Stone is a shoulder on which to bear Time
　　with trees formed of tears and ribbons and planets.
　　
　　I have seen grey showers move towards the waves
　　raising their tender riddle arms,
　　to avoid being caught by lying stone
　　which loosens their limbs without soaking their blood.
　　
　　For stone gathers seed and clouds,
　　skeleton larks and wolves of penumbra:
　　but yields not sounds nor crystals nor fire,
　　only bull rings and bull rings and more bull rings without walls.
　　
　　Now, Ignacio the well born lies on the stone.
　　All is finished. What is happening! Contemplate his face:
　　death has covered him with pale sulphur
　　and has place on him the head of dark minotaur.
　　
　　All is finished. The rain penetrates his mouth.
　　The air, as if mad, leaves his sunken chest,
　　and Love, soaked through with tears of snow,
　　warms itself on the peak of the herd.
　　
　　What is they saying? A stenching silence settles down.
　　We are here with a body laid out which fades away,
　　with a pure shape which had nightingales
　　and we see it being filled with depthless holes.
　　
　　Who creases the shroud? What he says is not true!
　　Nobody sings here, nobody weeps in the corner,
　　nobody pricks the spurs, nor terrifies the serpent.
　　Here I want nothing else but the round eyes
　　to see his body without a chance of rest.
　　
　　Here I want to see those men of hard voice.
　　Those that break horses and dominate rivers;
　　those men of sonorous skeleton who sing
　　with a mouth full of sun and flint.
　　
　　Here I want to see them. Before the stone.
　　Before this body with broken reins.
　　I want to know from them the way out
　　for this captain stripped down by death.
　　
　　I want them to show me a lament like a river
　　wich will have sweet mists and deep shores,
　　to take the body of Ignacio where it looses itself
　　without hearing the double planting of the bulls.
　　
　　Loses itself in the round bull ring of the moon
　　which feigns in its youth a sad quiet bull,
　　loses itself in the night without song of fishes
　　and in the white thicket of frozen smoke.
　　
　　I don't want to cover his face with handkerchiefs
　　that he may get used to the death he carries.
　　Go, Ignacio, feel not the hot bellowing
　　Sleep, fly, rest: even the sea dies!
　　
　　
　　
　　4. Absent Soul
　　
　　The bull does not know you, nor the fig tree,
　　nor the horses, nor the ants in your own house.
　　The child and the afternoon do not know you
　　because you have dead forever.
　　
　　The shoulder of the stone does not know you
　　nor the black silk, where you are shuttered.
　　Your silent memory does not know you
　　because you have died forever
　　
　　The autumn will come with small white snails,
　　misty grapes and clustered hills,
　　but no one will look into your eyes
　　because you have died forever.
　　
　　Because you have died for ever,
　　like all the dead of the earth,
　　like all the dead who are forgotten
　　in a heap of lifeless dogs.
　　
　　Nobady knows you. No. But I sing of you.
　　For posterity I sing of your profile and grace.
　　Of the signal maturity of your understanding.
　　Of your appetite for death and the taste of its mouth.
　　Of the sadness of your once valiant gaiety.
　　
　　It will be a long time, if ever, before there is born
　　an Andalusian so true, so rich in adventure.
　　I sing of his elegance with words that groan,
　　and I remember a sad breeze through the olive trees.