Muerte de Antoñito el Camborio
Federico Garcia Lorca
Voices of death echoed
all about the Guadalquivir.
all about the Guadalquivir.
Primitive voices closed in on
the voice with the virile carnation.
He slashed at their boots
with a tusk of a wild boar.
Ducking left, right, he
was slippery as a dolphin.
He drowned his necktie crimson
in his enemies’ blood,
but there were four knives against his
and finally he had to give way.
When veronicas of gillyflowers
are in the dreams of yearling bulls,
when stars thrust their lances
deep into the leaden waters,
voices of death echoed
all about the Guadalquivir.
“Antonio Torres Heredia,
Camborio of the rugged-mane,
dusky, green with the moon’s glow
voice of the virile carnation:
who has taken your life
down by the Guadalquivir?”
“My four Heredia cousins,
children of Benamejí.
What they didn’t envy in others
they found to envy in me.
Cherry-colored shoes,
my locket of ivory
and this smooth skin
kneaded with olive, with jasmine.”
“Ai, Antonio Camborio,
deserving of an Empress!
Take strength in the Virgin
for you are about to die.”
“Ai, Federico Garcia,
summon up the Civil Guard!
My slender body, snapped,
like a stalk of maize.”
Three deep stab wounds found
his blood, he died in silhouette.
his blood, he died in silhouette.
A manly coin whose like
will never be seen again.
A swaggering angel resting
his head upon a sham.
Others, flushed from toils,
lit a lamp of olive oil.
And when his four cousins
arrived at Benamejí,
voices of death hushed themselves
down by the Guadalquivir.