Federico García Lorca

"The artist, and particularly the poet, is always an anarchist in the best sense of the word. He must heed only the call that arises within him from three strong voices: the voice of death, with all its foreboding, the voice of love and the voice of art."

"Besides black art, there is only automation and mechanization."

"The two elements the traveler first captures in the big city are extra human architecture and furious rhythm. Geometry and anguish."

"A confused labyrinth of smoky starsentangles my hopes,which are nearly faded"

"The little boy was looking for his voice.(The king of the crickets had it.)In a drop of waterthe little boy was looking for his voice. I do not want it for speaking with;I will make a ring of itso that he may wear my silenceon his little finger In a drop of waterthe little boy was looking for his voice.(The captive voice, far away,put on a cricket's clo"

"A light which lives on what the flames devour,a grey landscape surrounding me with scorch,a crucifixion by a single wound,a sky and earth that darken by each hour,a sob of blood whose red ribbon adornsa lyre without a pulse, and oils the torch,a tide which stuns and strands me on the reef,a scorpion scrambling, stinging in my chest--this is the wreath of love, this bed of thornsis where I dream of you stealing my rest,haunting these sunken ribs cargoed with grief. I sought the peak of prudence, but I foundthe hemlock-brimming valley of your heart,and my own thirst for bitter truth an"

"Everyone understands the pain that accompanies death,but genuine pain doesn't live in the spirit,nor in the air, nor in our lives,nor on these terraces of billowing smoke. The genuine pain that keeps everything awakeis a tiny, infinite burnon the innocent eyes of other systems."

"Look at the longing, the anguish of a sad fossil world / that cannot find the accent of its first sob."

"The artist, and particularly the poet, is always an anarchist in the best sense of the word. He must heed only the call that arises within him from three strong voices: the voice of death, with all its foreboding, the voice of love and the voice of art."

"…And my heart openedlike a flower under sky,its petals of desire,its stamens of dreams…"

"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"

"Verde que te quiero verde. Verde viento. Verdes ramas. El barco sobre la mar y el caballo en la montaña."

"I know there is no straight road No straight road in this world Only a giant labyrinth Of intersecting crossroads"

"But hurry, let's entwine ourselves as one, our mouth broken, our soul bitten by love, so time discovers us safely destroyed."