Poetry Friday, Lorca

Wish

Just your hot heart,
nothing more.

My paradise, a field,
no nightingales,
no lyres,
a river, discrete,
and a little fountain.

Without the spurs,
of the wind, in the branches,
without the star,
that wants to be leaf.

An enormous light
that will be
the glow
of the Other,
in a field of broken gazes.

A still calm
where our kisses,
sonorous circles
of echoes,
will open, far-off.

And your hot heart,
nothing more.

Original Spanish here

This is what I--fevered, mesmerized, sleepy, exhausted, so so close to the end of the school year--want on this Spring day. Simple enough, no? I have no idea who the "your" of "your hot heart" might be, but that's not really the point. I am blogging the want (like blogging the lost) into the universe, via the powers of Lorca.