Federico Garcia Lorca

Narcissus.

Your fragrance.

And the depth of the stream.
I would remain at your verge.

Flower of love.

Narcissus.
Over your white eyes flicker

shadows and sleeping fish.

Birds and butterflies

lacquer mine.
You so minute and I so tall.

Flower of love.

Narcissus.
How active the frogs are!

They will not leave alone

the glass which mirrors

your delirium and mine.

Narcissus.

My sorrow.

And my sorrow's self.