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The Arrow

A popular voice said:
Who lends me a ladder
to climb the wood
to remove the nails
to Jesus the Nazarene?
 
Oh, the arrow, the singing
to the Christ of the Gypsies,
always with blood on the hands
always to unlock.
Song of the Andalusian people
that all the springs
he's asking for stairs
to climb the cross.
 
Sing of my land
that flowers
to the Jesus of agony,
and it is the faith of my elders.
Oh, it's not you my singing,
I can not sing, I do not want
to this Jesus of the wood,
but to the one who walked in the sea!
 

Little Spaniard

There is a Spaniard longing
to live and starts to live
Among a Spain that's dying
and another Spain that's yawning.
 
Little Spainard, who comes
to this world, may God save you
For one of the two Spains
shall freeze your heart stone cold.
 

Three Unpublished Songs Sent to Unamuno in 1913

My Lord, life tires me
My throat is very husky
from shouting across the seas
the sea's voice deafens me.
My Lord, life tires me
The universe stifles me.
My Lord, you abandoned me,
at the ocean sea, alone.
 
II
 
Either you and I are playing
hide-and-seek, my Lord,
or the voice I call you with
is your voice.
 
III
 
I seek you everywhere
yet without finding you,
and I find you everywhere
just by seeking you.
 
(1913)
 

To an Orange Tree and a Lemon Tree

Potted orange tree, how sad is your luck!
Your feeble leaves are shaking in fear.
Courted orange tree, how it hurts to see
your deadened, coarse, and 1 little trees!
 
Poor lemon tree with yellow fruit
like a polished bouquet of waxy pale,
little tree, how sad it is to see you
grow in a cheap and wooden barrel!
 
From the brightened forests of Andalucia,
Who brought you to this Castillian land
that the winds of the grim sierra pick up,
children of the fields of my own land?
 
The glory of the orchards, the lemon tree,
the fruits of pale gold you brighten
and of the black stark cypress grove,
silent prayers erected in chorus you lighten
 
From the lovely yard, the fresh orange tree
of the cheerful field and the dreamy orchard
ever in my ripened or florid memory
laden with branches, scents and fruits!
 

• 1. Actual trees cannot be wrinkled, but coarse.

The spring kissed

The spring kissed
smoothly, the grove,
and the new green sprouted,
as a green haze.
 
Clouds were passing by,
over the juvenile field...
I saw the leaves trembling,
the fresh April's rains.
 
Under that florid almond tree,
all filled with flowers,
-I remembered- I have cursed,
my loveless youth.
 
Today, in the middle age,
I've stopped to meditate:
''Never-lived youth,
who will dream of you again?''
 
Just learning.