Federico Garcia Lorca Quote

Sleepless City (Brooklyn Bridge Nocturne)Out in the sky, no one sleeps. No one, no one.No one sleeps.Lunar creatures sniff and circle the dwellings.Live iguanas will come to bite the men who don’t dream,and the brokenhearted fugitive will meet on street cornersan incredible crocodile resting beneath the tender protest of the stars.Out in the world, no one sleeps. No one, no one.No one sleeps.There is a corpse in the farthest graveyardcomplaining for three yearsbecause of an arid landscape in his knee;and a boy who was buried this morning cried so muchthey had to call the dogs to quiet him.Life is no dream. Watch out! Watch out! Watch out!We fall down stairs and eat the humid earth,or we climb to the snow’s edge with the choir of dead dahlias.But there is no oblivion, no dream:raw flesh. Kisses tie mouthsin a tangle of new veinsand those in pain will bear it with no respiteand those who are frightened by death will carry it on their shoulders.One dayhorses will live in the tavernsand furious antswill attack the yellow skies that take refuge in the eyes of cattle.Another daywe’ll witness the resurrection of dead butterflies,and still walking in a landscape of gray sponges and silent ships,we’ll see our ring shine and rose spill from our tongues.Watch out! Watch out! Watch out!Those still marked by claws and cloudburst,that boy who cries because he doesn’t know bridges exist,or that corpse that has nothing more than its head and one shoe—they all must be led to the wall where iguanas and serpents wait,where the bear’s teeth wait,where the mummified hand of a child waitsand the camel’s fur bristles with a violent blue chill.Out in the sky, no one sleeps. No one, no one.No one sleeps.But if someone closes his eyes,whip him, my children, whip him!Let there be a panorama of open eyesand bitter inflamed wounds.Out in the world, no one sleeps. No one. No one.I’ve said it before.No one sleeps.But at night, if someone has too much moss on his temples,open the trap doors so he can see in moonlightthe fake goblets, the venom, and the skull of the theaters.

Federico Garcia Lorca

Sleepless City (Brooklyn Bridge Nocturne)Out in the sky, no one sleeps. No one, no one.No one sleeps.Lunar creatures sniff and circle the dwellings.Live iguanas will come to bite the men who don’t dream,and the brokenhearted fugitive will meet on street cornersan incredible crocodile resting beneath the tender protest of the stars.Out in the world, no one sleeps. No one, no one.No one sleeps.There is a corpse in the farthest graveyardcomplaining for three yearsbecause of an arid landscape in his knee;and a boy who was buried this morning cried so muchthey had to call the dogs to quiet him.Life is no dream. Watch out! Watch out! Watch out!We fall down stairs and eat the humid earth,or we climb to the snow’s edge with the choir of dead dahlias.But there is no oblivion, no dream:raw flesh. Kisses tie mouthsin a tangle of new veinsand those in pain will bear it with no respiteand those who are frightened by death will carry it on their shoulders.One dayhorses will live in the tavernsand furious antswill attack the yellow skies that take refuge in the eyes of cattle.Another daywe’ll witness the resurrection of dead butterflies,and still walking in a landscape of gray sponges and silent ships,we’ll see our ring shine and rose spill from our tongues.Watch out! Watch out! Watch out!Those still marked by claws and cloudburst,that boy who cries because he doesn’t know bridges exist,or that corpse that has nothing more than its head and one shoe—they all must be led to the wall where iguanas and serpents wait,where the bear’s teeth wait,where the mummified hand of a child waitsand the camel’s fur bristles with a violent blue chill.Out in the sky, no one sleeps. No one, no one.No one sleeps.But if someone closes his eyes,whip him, my children, whip him!Let there be a panorama of open eyesand bitter inflamed wounds.Out in the world, no one sleeps. No one. No one.I’ve said it before.No one sleeps.But at night, if someone has too much moss on his temples,open the trap doors so he can see in moonlightthe fake goblets, the venom, and the skull of the theaters.

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About Federico Garcia Lorca

Federico del Sagrado Corazón de Jesús García Lorca (5 June 1898 – 19 August 1936) was a Spanish poet, playwright, and theatre director. García Lorca achieved international recognition as an emblematic member of the Generation of '27, a group consisting mostly of poets who introduced the tenets of European movements (such as symbolism, futurism, and surrealism) into Spanish literature.
He initially rose to fame with Romancero gitano (Gypsy Ballads, 1928), a book of poems depicting life in his native Andalusia. His poetry incorporated traditional Andalusian motifs and avant-garde styles. After a sojourn in New York City from 1929 to 1930—documented posthumously in Poeta en Nueva York (Poet in New York, 1942)—he returned to Spain and wrote his best-known plays, Blood Wedding (1932), Yerma (1934), and The House of Bernarda Alba (1936).
García Lorca was homosexual and suffered from depression after the end of his relationship with sculptor Emilio Aladrén Perojo. García Lorca also had a close emotional relationship for a time with Salvador Dalí, who said he rejected García Lorca's sexual advances.
García Lorca was assassinated by Nationalist forces at the beginning of the Spanish Civil War. His remains have never been found, and the motive remains in dispute; some theorize he was targeted for being gay, a socialist, or both, while others view a personal dispute as the more likely cause.