"If my hands could pluck" by Federico García Lorca 

 

I pronounce your name
on dark nights,
when the stars come
to drink on the moon
and the branches of
hidden fronds sleep.
And I feel hollow
of passion and music.
Mad clock singing
dead old hours.

I pronounce your name,
on this dark night,
and your name sounds
more distant than ever.
Far more than all the stars
and more sorrowful than the gentle rain.

Will I ever love you as I did
then? What is my heart
guilty of?
If the fog is gone,
What other passion awaits me?
Will it be quiet and pure?
If only my fingers could
pluck the moon!


*Translator's note: 
I used "pluck" to translate 'deshojar', which means to take off the petals or leaves of a flower