Sonnet Of The Sweet Complaint – Federico García Lorca

Never let me lose the marvel 

of your statue-like eyes, or the accent 

the solitary rose of your breath 

places on my cheek at night. 
I am afraid of being, on this shore, 

a branchless trunk, and what I most regret 

is having no flower, pulp, or clay 

for the worm of my despair. 
If you are my hidden treasure, 

if you are my cross, my dampened pain, 

if I am a dog, and you alone my master, 
never let me lose what I have gained, 

and adorn the branches of your river 

with leaves of my estranged Autumn.

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