Ignacio se mourait sur le sable allongé
Dans sa main moribonde une rose agrippée.
Et les femmes pleuraient à voir ce héros mort
Tandis qu’au ciel s’attroupaient de grands oiseaux noirs.
Les années ont passé, sont venus les tueurs
Fusillant les hommes sur le mont des douleurs.
Et parmi ces derniers, Lorca, le fif poète,
Qu’ils ont executé un canon dans les fesses.
Les tueurs étaient là pour mutiler les corps,
Ils ont fui vers la ville effrayés par la mort.
Lorca l’avait prédit son corps s’est échappé
Et on n’entendit plus que des femmes prier.
Mère de toutes joies
Mère de toutes peines
Intercède en sa faveur ce soir
Pour tous nos lendemains
Shane MacGowan (c) 1990
Traduction libre : Christian Girard (c) 2010
"His poetry reads beautifully, and it was his area we were in. He was a popular poet in the same way that a lot of Irish poets were, in that he wrote in ballad form and wrote about what was going on among the people. His poetry doesn't come from intellectual thought, it comes from the connection between emotion and seeing and feeling. The other thing about him is that he was a faggot, and during the Civil War the fascists went round pulling out all the Republican sympathisers they could find, and they got Lorca and shot him along with a lot of others, but because he was a faggot they rammed the gun up his arse and walked away laughing. But Lorca predicted his own death: he said that his body would disappear and that's exactly what happened and they never found it. He's a big folk hero in Spain and a brilliant poet."
-Shane MacGowan à propos de Federico Garcia Lorca
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