Those. My far off eyes of nineteen-ten
did not see dead men buried, 
nor the bonfire ashes struck off corpses for mourning at dawn,
nor my heartflesh fenced and trembling like a little sea horse.

Those. My far off eyes of nineteen-ten
saw the white washed wall where the girls squatted to pee,
the snouted big talking bull, the poisonous mushroom,
and the inchoate moon shining just below the trees
onto the hard black bottles, bottoms sealed in chunks of dried lemon.

Those. My far off eyes fixed to the neck of a goddess,
on the piercéd breasts of sleeping Santa Rosa 
handled coolly on love’s rooftops with her ineffable groans
in a garden where the cats ate the frogs.

See! An attic where dust gathers to moss and gargoyles,
where boxes hide the deathly silence of cracked crab shells,
where dreams are tripped headlong over reality.
There! Those. My small, far off eyes.

Do not sound me for answers. I have seen that things
seeking their path find their depth in emptiness.
There are pockets of unpopulated pain throughout the air.
In my far off eyes, little creatures are dressed within it, unashamed.

Author: Federico García Lorca
Translator: Manny Grimaldi