Berceuse for a Sleeping Mirror: F G Lorca 5 June 1898-19 August 1936.

Como mi corazón
así tú,
espejo mío.

As my heart is,
so you are,
my mirror

On this day in 1936, Spanish poet Federico García Lorca was shot by Franco’s troops after being forced to dig his own grave.

I was introduced to Lorca’s poetry by one of my boyfriends.To grant a poet the gift of another poet’s words, when those words are precisely what is needed in the situation: that is a gift beyond measure. It seems only fitting that today, when things are difficult and my mood is low, I turn to Lorca to commune with a fellow soul and am reminded that this is the anniversary of his death.

Lorca’s a hard man to get to grips with. It’s tempting to try and shoehorn him into categories, which I won’t list here – because he’s not so easily pigeonholed. For me he speaks the silent language of the heart, the words birds make when they swirl past you, the staccato machine-gunned voices of argument, the slow slip of the river into which we are so, so tempted to fall. To my friend he said something entirely different.

Here is a man who spoke a language other than my own, whose life followed a path with which I am unable to fully empathise, whose generation lived and died in a world that now seems so very distant from our own. So very distant. It was, after all, another century. But his words still speak to me. “Is my heart your heart? Who is mirroring my thoughts? Who lends me this unrooted passion?”

Maybe they will speak to you too.


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