In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said: ‘Is it good, friend?’
‘It is bitter-bitter,’ he answered;
‘But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart.’
—In the desert, Stephen Crane, 1895
Oye, hijo mío, el silencio.
Es un silencio ondulado,
donde resbalan valles y ecos
y que inclina las frentes
hacia el suelo.
—El Silencio, Federico García Lorca, 1921
The vivid consciousness
That waking or dreaming, its twenty years, infallibly
Felt itself unitary, was now divided:
Like the dispersion of a broken hive: the brain-cells
And rent fragments of cells finding
After their communal festival of life particular deaths.
In their deaths they dreamed a moment, the unspent chemistry
Of life resolving its powers; some in the cold star-gleam,
Some in the cooling darkness in the crushed skull.
But shine and shade were indifferent to them, their dreams
Determined by temperatures, access of air,
Wetness or drying, as the work of autolytic
Enzymes of the last hunger hasted or failed.
—Cawdor (excerpt), Robinson Jeffers, 1928