by Federico García Lorca

    Translated by Robert Bly

    In the sky there is nobody asleep.  Nobody， nobody.

    Nobody is asleep.

    The creatures of the moon sniff¹ and prowl about their cabins.

    The living iguanas² will come and bite the men who do not dream，

    and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the

    street corner

    the unbelievable alligator³ quiet beneath the tender protest of the

    stars.

    Nobody is asleep on earth.  Nobody， nobody.

    Nobody is asleep.

    In a graveyard⁴ far off there is a corpse⁵

    who has moaned for three years

    because of a dry countryside on his knee；

    and that boy they buried this morning cried so much

    it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet.

    Life is not a dream.  Careful！  Careful！  Careful！

    We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth

    or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead

    dahlias.

    But forgetfulness does not exist， dreams do not exist；

    flesh exists.  Kisses tie our mouths

    in a thicket⁶ of new veins⁷，

    and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever

    and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulders.

    One day

    the horses will live in the saloons

    and the enraged⁸ ants

    will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the

    eyes of cows.

    Another day

    we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead

    and still walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats

    we will watch our ring flash and roses spring from our tongue.

    Careful！  Be careful！  Be careful！

    The men who still have marks of the claw and the thunderstorm，

    and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention

    of the bridge，

    or that dead man who possesses now only his head and a shoe，

    we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes

    are waiting，

    where the bear's teeth are waiting，

    where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting，

    and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder⁹.

    Nobody is sleeping in the sky.  Nobody， nobody.

    Nobody is sleeping.

    If someone does close his eyes，

    a whip， boys， a whip！

    Let there be a landscape of open eyes

    and bitter wounds on fire.

    No one is sleeping in this world.  No one， no one.

    I have said it before.

    No one is sleeping.

    But if someone grows too much moss¹⁰ on his temples during the

    night，

    open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight

    the lying goblets¹¹， and the poison， and the skull¹² of the theaters.

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