How tremendous with the final

but the terrible mothers

Who shouts that I should come near!

nobody pricks the spurs, nor terrifies the serpent.

Your silent memory does not know you

who could compare to him,

but the dawn was no more.

to see his body without a chance of rest.

I will not see it!

His eyes did not close

Tell the moon to come,

At five in the afternoon.

to avoid being caught by lying stone

I will not see it!

at five in the afternoon.

He seeks for his confident profile

The bass-string struck up

It was five in the shade of the afternoon!

At five in the afternoon.

that he may get used to the death he carries.

an Andalusian so true, so rich in adventure.

that spurt that illuminates

and Love, soaked through with tears of snow,

At five oclock in the afternoon.

and we see it being filled with depthless holes.

sliden on frozen horns,

at five in the afternoon.

the flower of his skull.

without curving waters and frozen cypresses.

Oh, nightingale of his veins!

I want them to show me a lament like a river

faltering soulles in the mist

A boy brought the white sheet

because you have dead forever.

Ignacio goes up the tiers

It was five by all the clocks!

What a great torero in the ring!

Of the sadn九*九*藏*书*网ess of your once valiant gaiety.

of Ignacio on the sand.

nor heart so true.

Because you have died for ever,

Do not ask me to see it!

the tiers of seats, and spills

at five in the afternoon.

But now he sleeps without end.

passed har sad tongue

Like a river of lions

Nobody sings here, nobody weeps in the corner,

Here I want nothing else but the round eyes

All is finished. What is happening! Contemplate his face:

for I do not want to see the blood

Of your appetite for death and the taste of its mouth.

Here I want to see those men of hard voice.

of a thirsty multiude.

in a heap of lifeless dogs.

I will not see it!

of such minute whiteness!

an air of secret voices rose,

Go, Ignacio, feel not the hot bellowing

How dazzling the fiesta!

at five in the afternoon.

A frail of lime ready prepared

and encountered his opened blood

There was no prince in Sevilla

and the grey bull ring of dreams

I will not see it!

close to the starry Guadalquivir.

singing along marshes and meadows,

which feigns in its youth a sad quiet bull,

The child and the afternoon do not know you

For posterity I sing of your profile and grace.

I do not want to hear it spurt

sated with threading the earth.

Oh, white wall of Spain!

because you have died fo99lib•netrever.

Nobady knows you. No. But I sing of you.

at five in the afternoon.

Do not ask me to see it!

The air, as if mad, leaves his sunken chest,

Sleep, fly, rest: even the sea dies!

A coffin on wheels is his bed

and the dream bewilders him

Warm the jasmines

I will not see it!

nor the black silk, where you are shuttered.

All is finished. The rain penetrates his mouth.

Loses itself in the round bull ring of the moon

We are here with a body laid out which fades away,

Let my memory kindle!

at five in the afternoon.

which loosens their limbs without soaking their blood.

spilled on the sand,

no glass can cover mit with silver.

And a thigh with a desolated horn

He sought for the dawn

shouting to celestial bulls,

without hearing the double planting of the bulls.

like a long, dark, sad tongue,

and the bulls of Guisando,

The room was iridiscent with agony

and I remember a sad breeze through the olive trees.

I want to know from them the way out

Now, Ignacio the well born lies on the stone.

Arsenic bells and smoke

I have seen grey showers move towards the waves

his firm drawn moderation.

Before this body with broken reins.

At five in the afternoon.

I will not see it!

No.

with all his death on his shoulders.

at five in the afternoon.

nor the horses, nor the ants in your own house.

He sought for his beautiful body

It will be a long time, if ever, before there is born

and like a marble toroso

What a good peasant in the sierra!

at five in the afternoon.

to take the body of Ignacio where it looses itself

And now his blood comes out singing;

Death laid eggs in the wound

at five in the afternoon.

How hard with the spurs!

but yields not sounds nor crystals nor fire,

at five in the afternoon.

at five in the afternoon.

Horse of still clouds,

but no one will look into your eyes

at five in the afternoon.

at five in the afternoon.

At five in the afternoon.

Horn of the lily through green groins

And the oxide scattered crystal and nickel

The air of Andalusian Rome

misty grapes and clustered hills,

over a snout of blood

nor sword like his sword

warms itself on the peak of the herd.

at five in the afternoon.

and has place on him the head of dark minotaur.

with a pure shape which had nightingales

for this captain stripped down by death.

open with sure fingers

of wit and intelligence.

What is they saying? A stenching silence settles down.

I sing of his 九九藏书elegance with words that groan,

at five in the afternoon.

because you have died forever

The shoulder of the stone does not know you

stoumbling over a thousand hoofs

where his smile was a spikenard

gilded his head

In the distance the gangrene now comes

Who creases the shroud? What he says is not true!

The rest was death, and death alone.

no frost of light can cool it,

And the bull alone with a high heart!

raising their tender riddle arms,

For stone gathers seed and clouds,

Bones and flutes resound in his ears

like all the dead who are forgotten

and in the white thicket of frozen smoke.

herdsmen of pale mist.

The wind carried away the cottonwool

only bull rings and bull rings and more bull rings without walls.

when the bull ring was covered with iodine

no swallows can drink it,

Oh, black bull of sorrow!

Here I want to see them. Before the stone.

Now the dove and the leopard wrestle

Now the bull was bellowing through his forehead

over the cordury and the leather

Stone is a shoulder on which to bear Time

Oh, hard blood of Ignacio!

wich will have sweet mists and deep shores,

When the sweat of snow was coming

those men of sonorous skeleton who sing

The wounds were burning like suns

at fi九_九_藏_书_网ve in the afternoon,

The moon wide open.

was his marvellous strength,

skeleton larks and wolves of penumbra:

Now the moss and the grass

partly death and partly stone,

The bull does not know you, nor the fig tree,

at five in the afternoon.

I dont want to cover his face with handkerchiefs

with a mouth full of sun and flint.

lifted their heads.

with willows in the barreras.

banderillas of darkness!

I will not see it!

each time with less strength:

The autumn will come with small white snails,

at five in the afternoon.

It was exactly five in the afternoon.

with trees formed of tears and ribbons and planets.

How gentle with the sheaves!

to form a pool of agony

Ah, that fatal five in the afternoon!

when he saw the horns near,

loses itself in the night without song of fishes

Stone is a forehead where dreames grieve

death has covered him with pale sulphur

bellowed like two centuries

like all the dead of the earth,

Of the signal maturity of your understanding.

No.

The cow of the ancient world

nor song nor deluge og white lilies,

at five in the afternoon.

Groups of silence in the corners

How tender with the dew!

And across the ranches,

Those that break horses and dominate rivers;

No.

No chalice can contain it,