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    Name: Karen Lorena Rodríguez Sepúlveda Code: 201710905

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    Lorena Sepúlveda
    This poem is about a bullfighter named Ignatius who is killed by bulls. It describes Ignatius looking for the sunrise but finding only his blood spilled open instead. It mourns Ignatius' death and the spilling of his blood on the sand, leaving his body to be consumed by mosses and grass. The poem expresses not wanting to see the aftermath of Ignatius' death.

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    Name: Karen Lorena Rodríguez Sepúlveda Code: 201710905

    Uploaded by

    Lorena Sepúlveda
    22 views4 pages
    This poem is about a bullfighter named Ignatius who is killed by bulls. It describes Ignatius looking for the sunrise but finding only his blood spilled open instead. It mourns Ignatius' death and the spilling of his blood on the sand, leaving his body to be consumed by mosses and grass. The poem expresses not wanting to see the aftermath of Ignatius' death.

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    poema traduciso

    Original Title

    TRANSLATED POEM

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    This poem is about a bullfighter named Ignatius who is killed by bulls. It describes Ignatius looking for the sunrise but finding only his blood spilled open instead. It mourns Ignatius' death and the spilling of his blood on the sand, leaving his body to be consumed by mosses and grass. The poem expresses not wanting to see the aftermath of Ignatius' death.

    Copyright:

    © All Rights Reserved
    Download as DOCX, PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
    Download as docx, pdf, or txt
    22 views4 pages

    Name: Karen Lorena Rodríguez Sepúlveda Code: 201710905

    Uploaded by

    Lorena Sepúlveda
    This poem is about a bullfighter named Ignatius who is killed by bulls. It describes Ignatius looking for the sunrise but finding only his blood spilled open instead. It mourns Ignatius' death and the spilling of his blood on the sand, leaving his body to be consumed by mosses and grass. The poem expresses not wanting to see the aftermath of Ignatius' death.

    Copyright:

    © All Rights Reserved
    Download as DOCX, PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
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    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!

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