On the rocks of the height,
you’ve transfigured, viola, fixed and frozen of light.
No voice, but such a voice sounding deeply, 
through everything, and sounding through nothing.

I see thoughts melt the purity of your water,
the slipping snow.
To painters, the look of your profile is flower burning;
Your heart is a bedraggled white dove, released.

Sing, and through unchained breezes 
make fragrant songs: 
to the bright hills, wound of an Easter lily—

while night and day, 
on the corners of pain, 
we weave a wreath of melancholy.

Author: Federico García Lorca
Translator: Manny Grimaldi