PROGRESS UPDATE
A goal of Sandra on their 1001 Things in 1001 Days list with a status of Done.
Posted 10 years ago
Related Notes:
- Onion Lullabies (by Miguel Hernández)
The onion is frost,
closed an impoverished.
Frost of your days
and my nights.
Hunger and onion,
black ice and frost
vast and round.
On the cradle of hunger
my baby boy laid.
With onion blood
he was breast-fed.
But it was was your blood,
frosted with sugar,
onion and hunger.
A brown skinned woman,
resolute as the moon
pours herself, thread upon thread
on the cradle.
Laugh, child of mine,
and I will bring you the moon
when needs be.
Lark of my home,
laugh a lot.
Laughter in your eyes is
the light of the world.
Laugh so much
that my soul, upon hearing you
flaps in space.
Your laughter makes me free,
gives me wings.
Takes lonelinesses away,
rips jail away from me.
Mouth that flies,
heart that in your lips
crashes like lightning.
You laughet is
the most vctorious sword,
victor of the flowes
and the larks.
Rival to the sun,
future of my bones
and my love.
The batting flesh,
the sudden eyelash
life, coloured as never
it was before.
How many robins
fly up, flip their wings
from atop your body!
I woke up from being a child:
may you never wake up.
My mouth is sad:
may you always laugh.
Always in your cradle,
defending laughter
feather by feather.
Being of flight so vast,
so expansive
that your flesh is
a newborn sky.
That I could
climb up to the start
of your voyage!
On the eight month you laugh
with five saffron flowers,
with five tiny
ferocities.
With five teeth
like five adolescent jasmines.
Tomorrow they shall be
the border of kisses,
when you feel a weapon
between your teeth.
When you feel a fire
run down from gritted teeth
looking for your center.
Fly, chilt on the double
moon of the breast:
him, saddened with onions,
you, sated.
Don´t fall apart
never know of what happens
or what transpires.
This poem was composed by Miguel Hernánndez while in jail after the Spanish Civil War, this the many references to freedom and jails. The origin was a letter from his wife, wher she told him that she only had bread and onions to eat, and that both her and his child suffered from severe hunger. Hernández never met the boy, as he would eventually die in prison.
The onion is frost,
closed an impoverished.
Frost of your days
and my nights.
Hunger and onion,
black ice and frost
vast and round.
On the cradle of hunger
my baby boy laid.
With onion blood
he was breast-fed.
But it was was your blood,
frosted with sugar,
onion and hunger.
A brown skinned woman,
resolute as the moon
pours herself, thread upon thread
on the cradle.
Laugh, child of mine,
and I will bring you the moon
when needs be.
Lark of my home,
laugh a lot.
Laughter in your eyes is
the light of the world.
Laugh so much
that my soul, upon hearing you
flaps in space.
Your laughter makes me free,
gives me wings.
Takes lonelinesses away,
rips jail away from me.
Mouth that flies,
heart that in your lips
crashes like lightning.
You laughet is
the most vctorious sword,
victor of the flowes
and the larks.
Rival to the sun,
future of my bones
and my love.
The batting flesh,
the sudden eyelash
life, coloured as never
it was before.
How many robins
fly up, flip their wings
from atop your body!
I woke up from being a child:
may you never wake up.
My mouth is sad:
may you always laugh.
Always in your cradle,
defending laughter
feather by feather.
Being of flight so vast,
so expansive
that your flesh is
a newborn sky.
That I could
climb up to the start
of your voyage!
On the eight month you laugh
with five saffron flowers,
with five tiny
ferocities.
With five teeth
like five adolescent jasmines.
Tomorrow they shall be
the border of kisses,
when you feel a weapon
between your teeth.
When you feel a fire
run down from gritted teeth
looking for your center.
Fly, chilt on the double
moon of the breast:
him, saddened with onions,
you, sated.
Don´t fall apart
never know of what happens
or what transpires.
This poem was composed by Miguel Hernánndez while in jail after the Spanish Civil War, this the many references to freedom and jails. The origin was a letter from his wife, wher she told him that she only had bread and onions to eat, and that both her and his child suffered from severe hunger. Hernández never met the boy, as he would eventually die in prison.