of a thirsty multiude.

at five in the afternoon,

How dazzling the fiesta!

passed har sad tongue

like a long, dark, sad tongue,

But now he sleeps without end.

At five oclock in the afternoon.

Stone is a forehead where dreames grieve

his firm drawn moderation.

A coffin on wheels is his bed

with willows in the barreras.

I will not see it!

Here I want to see those men of hard voice.

misty grapes and clustered hills,

A boy brought the white sheet

sated with threading the earth.

in a heap of lifeless dogs.

For posterity I sing of your profile and grace.

that spurt that illuminates

And now his blood comes out singing;

And the oxide scattered crystal and nickel

an Andalusian so true, so rich in adventure.

I will not see it!

Oh, nightingale of his veins!

no glass can cover mit with silver.

but no one will look into your eyes

and we see it being filled with depthless holes.

at five in the afternoon.

but the terrible mothers

Those that break horses and dominate rivers;

without hearing the double planting of the bulls.

I will not see it!

faltering soulles in the mist

nor heart so true.

Now the moss and the grass

warms itself on the peak of the herd.

at five in the afternoon.

Horn of the lily through green groins

skeleton larks and wol九_九_藏_書ves of penumbra:

Now, Ignacio the well born lies on the stone.

In the distance the gangrene now comes

How gentle with the sheaves!

nor sword like his sword

The wounds were burning like suns

which loosens their limbs without soaking their blood.

How tender with the dew!

I will not see it!

which feigns in its youth a sad quiet bull,

lifted their heads.

The child and the afternoon do not know you

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

Oh, black bull of sorrow!

Nobody sings here, nobody weeps in the corner,

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

at five in the afternoon.

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

When the sweat of snow was coming

and the bulls of Guisando,

Stone is a shoulder on which to bear Time

It was five in the shade of the afternoon!

What a good peasant in the sierra!

The rest was death, and death alone.

Ignacio goes up the tiers

at five in the afternoon.

How tremendous with the final

because you have dead forever.

sliden on frozen horns,

was his marvellous strength,

for this captain stripped down by death.

where his smile was a spikenard

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

Waread.99csw.comrm the jasmines

and Love, soaked through with tears of snow,

Of the sadness of your once valiant gaiety.

A frail of lime ready prepared

to take the body of Ignacio where it looses itself

The moon wide open.

with a mouth full of sun and flint.

Now the dove and the leopard wrestle

Sleep, fly, rest: even the sea dies!

at five in the afternoon.

There was no prince in Sevilla

Here I want nothing else but the round eyes

who could compare to him,

The bass-string struck up

over the cordury and the leather

gilded his head

Because you have died for ever,

I want to know from them the way out

At five in the afternoon.

Arsenic bells and smoke

at five in the afternoon.

and like a marble toroso

shouting to celestial bulls,

close to the starry Guadalquivir.

and I remember a sad breeze through the olive trees.

At five in the afternoon.

at five in the afternoon.

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

Loses itself in the round bull ring of the moon

I will not see it!

loses itself in the night without song of fishes

He sought for his beautiful body

and has place on him the head of dark minotaur.

when he saw the horns near,

raising their tender riddle arms,

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

It was five by all ｒｅaｄ.99ｃsｗ•ｃｏｍthe clocks!

and encountered his opened blood

at five in the afternoon.

like all the dead of the earth,

The cow of the ancient world

those men of sonorous skeleton who sing

Go, Ignacio, feel not the hot bellowing

over a snout of blood

At five in the afternoon.

at five in the afternoon.

Ah, that fatal five in the afternoon!

Horse of still clouds,

I dont want to cover his face with handkerchiefs

at five in the afternoon.

The wind carried away the cottonwool

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

bellowed like two centuries

that he may get used to the death he carries.

nobody pricks the spurs, nor terrifies the serpent.

but yields not sounds nor crystals nor fire,

herdsmen of pale mist.

Groups of silence in the corners

Tell the moon to come,

No.

I will not see it!

at five in the afternoon.

and the grey bull ring of dreams

It was exactly five in the afternoon.

Oh, white wall of Spain!

Do not ask me to see it!

I have seen grey showers move towards the waves

What a great torero in the ring!

to form a pool of agony

and the dream bewilders him

No.

the flower of his skull.

to avoid being caught by lying stone

death has covered him with pale sulphur

He https://read.99csw.comseeks for his confident profile

at five in the afternoon.

Now the bull was bellowing through his forehead

Let my memory kindle!

nor the black silk, where you are shuttered.

the tiers of seats, and spills

spilled on the sand,

at five in the afternoon.

at five in the afternoon.

The shoulder of the stone does not know you

without curving waters and frozen cypresses.

no swallows can drink it,

banderillas of darkness!

with a pure shape which had nightingales

of such minute whiteness!

Before this body with broken reins.

His eyes did not close

All is finished. The rain penetrates his mouth.

I want them to show me a lament like a river

stoumbling over a thousand hoofs

an air of secret voices rose,

when the bull ring was covered with iodine

singing along marshes and meadows,

with trees formed of tears and ribbons and planets.

No chalice can contain it,

at five in the afternoon.

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

nor song nor deluge og white lilies,

of Ignacio on the sand.

No.

What is they saying? A stenching silence settles down.

And the bull alone with a high heart!

I do not want to hear it spurt

to see his body without a chance of rest.

Of your appetite for death and the taste of it九*九*藏*書s mouth.

The air of Andalusian Rome

The room was iridiscent with agony

because you have died forever.

at five in the afternoon.

I will not see it!

Who shouts that I should come near!

like all the dead who are forgotten

How hard with the spurs!

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

each time with less strength:

because you have died forever

He sought for the dawn

Death laid eggs in the wound

at five in the afternoon.

no frost of light can cool it,

partly death and partly stone,

Oh, hard blood of Ignacio!

Of the signal maturity of your understanding.

Your silent memory does not know you

For stone gathers seed and clouds,

of wit and intelligence.

Here I want to see them. Before the stone.

at five in the afternoon.

for I do not want to see the blood

I sing of his elegance with words that groan,

and in the white thicket of frozen smoke.

Do not ask me to see it!

but the dawn was no more.

with all his death on his shoulders.

wich will have sweet mists and deep shores,

Like a river of lions

And across the ranches,

The autumn will come with small white snails,

At five in the afternoon.

Bones and flutes resound in his ears

And a thigh with a desolated horn

open with sure fingers