City That Does Not Sleep -Federico García Lorca

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

Nobody is asleep. 

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

The living iguanas 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 alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the 

Nobody is asleep on earth. Nobody, nobody. 

Nobody is asleep. 

In a graveyard far off there is a corpse 

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 


But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams do not exist; 

flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths 

in a thicket of new veins, 

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 enraged 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 shudder. 
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 moss on his temples during the 


open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight 

the lying goblets, and the poison, and the skull of the theaters.

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