Consolatio

http://www.consolatio.com/

The bull does not know you, nor the fig tree,
nor horses nor the ants in your house.
The boy does not know you, nor the evening,
because you have died for ever.

The stone slab does not know you,
nor the black satin where you are mangled.
Your tired memory does not know you
because you have died for ever.

The autumn will come with conch shells,
cluster of fog and rows of mountains,
but no one will want to look into your eyes
because you have died for ever.

Because you have died for ever,
like all the dead of the Earth,
like all the dead that are forgotten
in a heap of lifeless dogs.

No one knows you. No. But I sing of you.
I sing for the future your profile and your grace.
The remarkable maturity of your knowledge.
Your appetite for death and the taste of your mouth.

The sadness of your valiant cheerfulness.
It will be a long time before there is born, if there is ever born,
an Andalusian so bright, so rich with adventure.
I sing of your elegance with words that groan
and I remember a sad breeze through the olive trees.

{ Federico García Lorca }
Absent Soul, Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías

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About Klassy

How Klassy got her groove back.

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