Antonio Machado

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    Biographical information

  1. Fields Of Soria
  2. Guadarrama
  3. Has My Heart Gone To Sleep?
  4. Last Night As I Was Sleeping
  5. Passageways
  6. Songs Of The High Country
  7. The Wind, One Brilliant Day
  8. To Jose Maria Palacio




    Biographical information

      Name: Antonio machado
      Place and date of birth: Sevilla (Spain); July 26, 1875
      Place and date of death: Collioure (France); February 22, 1939 (aged 63)

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      Fields Of Soria

        Hills of silver plate,
        grey heights, dark red rocks
        through which the Duero bends
        its crossbow arc
        round Soria, shadowed oaks,
        stone dry-lands, naked mountains,
        white roads and river poplars,
        twilights of Soria, warlike and mystical,
        today I feel, for you,
        in my hearts depths, sadness,
        sadness of love! Fields of Soria,
        where it seems the stones have dreams,
        you go with me! Hills of silver plate,
        grey heights, dark red rocks.

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      Guadarrama

        Guadarrama, is it you, old friend,
        mountains white and gray
        that I used to see painted against the blue
        those afternoons of the old days in Madrid?
        Up your deep ravines
        and past your bristling peaks
        a thousand Guadarramas and a thousand suns
        come riding with me, riding to your heart.

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      Has My Heart Gone To Sleep?

        Has my heart gone to sleep?
        Have the beehives of my dreams
        stopped working, the waterwheel
        of the mind run dry,
        scoops turning empty,
        only shadow inside?

        No, my heart is not asleep.
        It is awake, wide awake.
        Not asleep, not dreaming—
        its eyes are opened wide
        watching distant signals, listening
        on the rim of vast silence.

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      Last Night As I Was Sleeping

        Last night as I was sleeping,
        I dreamt—marvelous error!—
        that a spring was breaking
        out in my heart.
        I said: Along which secret aqueduct,
        Oh water, are you coming to me,
        water of a new life
        that I have never drunk?

        Last night as I was sleeping,
        I dreamt—marvelous error!—
        that I had a beehive
        here inside my heart.
        And the golden bees
        were making white combs
        and sweet honey
        from my old failures.

        Last night as I was sleeping,
        I dreamt—marvelous error!—
        that a fiery sun was giving
        light inside my heart.
        It was fiery because I felt
        warmth as from a hearth,
        and sun because it gave light
        and brought tears to my eyes.

        Last night as I slept,
        I dreamt—marvelous error!—
        that it was God I had
        here inside my heart.

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      Passageways

        Who set, between those rocks like cinder,
        to show the honey of dream,
        that golden broom,
        those blue rosemaries?
        Who painted the purple mountains
        and the saffron, sunset sky?
        The hermitage, the beehives,
        the cleft of the river
        the endless rolling water deep in rocks,
        the pale-green of new fields,
        all of it, even the white and pink
        under the almond trees!

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      Songs Of The High Country

        Soria, in blue mountains,
        on the fields of violet,
        how often I’ve dreamed of you
        on the plain of flowers,
        where the Guadalquiviŕ runs
        past golden orange-trees
        to the sea.

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      The Wind, One Brilliant Day

        The wind, one brilliant day, called
        to my soul with an odor of jasmine.

        "In return for the odor of my jasmine,
        I'd like all the odor of your roses."

        "I have no roses; all the flowers
        in my garden are dead."

        "Well then, I'll take the withered petals
        and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain."

        the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself:
        "What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?"

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      To Jose Maria Palacio

        Palacio, good friend,
        is spring there
        showing itself on branches of black poplars
        by the roads and river? On the steeps
        of the high Duero, spring is late,
        but so soft and lovely when it comes!
        Are there a few new leaves
        on the old elms?
        The acacias must still be bare,
        and the mountain peaks snow-filled.
        Oh the massed pinks and whites
        of Moncayo, massed up there,
        beauty, in the sky of Aragon!
        Are there brambles flowering,
        among the grey stones,
        and white daisies,
        in the thin grass?

        On the belltowers
        the storks will be landing now.
        The wheat must be green
        and the brown mules working sown furrows,
        the people seeding late crops,
        in April rain. There’ll be bees,
        drunk on rosemary and thyme.
        Are the plum trees in flower? Violets still?
        There must be hunters about, stealthy,
        their decoys under long capes.
        Palacio, good friend,
        are there nightingales by the river?
        When the first lilies,
        and the first roses, open,
        on a blue evening, climb to Espino,
        high Espino, where she is in the earth.

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