Name: Karen Lorena Rodríguez Sepúlveda

Code: 201710905

BLOOD SPILLED

I don't want to see her!

Tell the moon to come,

I don't want to see the blood

Ignatius on the sand.

I don't want to see her!

The moon wide open,

horse of still clouds,

and the grey square of sleep

with willows on the barriers

I don't want to see her!

That my memory burns.

Warn the Jasmines

with his little whiteness!

I don't want to see her!

The cow of the old world

passed his sad tongue

on a snout of blood

spilled into the sand,

and the bulls of Guisando,

almost death and almost stone,

moaned about two centuries

fed up with stepping on the ground.

No.

I don't want to see her!

Ignacio rises by the stands

with all his death in tow.

He was looking for the sunrise,

and the sunrise was not.

Look for your profile securely,

and the dream disorients him.

He was looking for her beautiful body

and found his blood open.

Don't tell me to see her!

I don't want to feel the jet

less and less force;

that squirt that illuminates

the stretches and turns

on corduroy and leather

thirsty crowd.

Who yells at me to take me!

Don't tell me to see her!

His eyes didn't close.

when he saw the horns nearby,

But terrible mothers

raised their heads.

And through livestock,

there was an air of secret voices

who were shouting at blue bulls,

mostly pale fog.

There was no prince in Seville

to be compared to him,

nor sword like his sword,

nor heart so really.

Like a river of lions

its wonderful strength,

and like a marble torso

his drawn prudence.

Air of Andalusian Rome

I doraba his head

where his laughter was a nardo

salt and intelligence.

What a bullfighter in the square!

What a great mountain in the mountains!

How soft on spikes!

How hard of spurs!

How sweet with dew!

How dazzling at the fair!

How tremendous with the latest

flags of darkness!

But he's already asleep endlessly.

Already the mosses and the grass

open with safe fingers

the flower of his skull.

And his blood has already been singing:

singing for marshes and meadows,

slipping through atered horns

hesitating soullessly for the fog,

stumbling upon thousands of hooves

like a long, dark, sad tongue,

to form a puddle of agony

next to the Guadalquivir of the stars.

O white wall of Spain!

O black bull of sorrow!

O hard blood of Ignatius!

O nightingale of his veins!

No.

I don't want to see her!

That there is no chalice that contains it,

that there are no swallows to drink it,

there's no frost of light to cool it down,

there is no singing or deluge of lilies,

there is no glass to cover it in silver.

No.

I don't want to see her!