The bull does not know you, nor the fig tree,   
nor horses nor the ants in your house.
The boy does not know you, nor the evening,
because you have died for ever.

The stone slab does not know  you,
nor the black satin where you are mangled.
Your tired memory does not know you
because you have died for ever.

The autumn will come with conch shells,
cluster of fog and rows of mountains,
but no one will want to look into your eyes
because you have died for ever.

Because you have died for ever,
like all the dead of the Earth,
like all the dead that are forgotten
in a heap of lifeless dogs.

No one knows you. No. But I sing of you.
I sing for the future your profile and your grace.
The remarkable maturity of your knowledge.
Your appetite for death and the taste of your mouth.

The sadness of your valiant cheerfulness.
It will be a long time before there is born, if there is ever born,
an Andalusian so bright, so rich with adventure.
I sing of your elegance with words that groan
and I remember a sad breeze through the olive trees.

        --Federico García Lorca (1898-1936), from "Alma Ausente, Llanto por Ignacio Sánchez Mejías" [Absent Soul, Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías].

No te conoce el toro ni la higuera,
ni caballos ni hormigas de tu casa.
No te conoce el niño ni la tarde
porque te has muerto para siempre.

No te conoce el lomo de la piedra,
ni el raso negro donde te destrozas.
No te conoce tu recuerdo mudo
porque te has muerto para siempre.

El otoño vendrá con caracolas,
uva de niebla y montes agrupados,
pero nadie querrá mirar tus ojos
porque te has muerto para siempre.

Porque te has muerto para siempre,
como todos los muertos de la Tierra,
como todos los muertos que se olvidan
en un montón de perros apagados.

No te conoce nadie. No. Pero yo te canto.
Yo canto para luego tu perfil y tu gracia.
La madurez insigne de tu conocimiento.
Tu apetencia de muerte y el gusto de su boca.

La tristeza que tuvo tu valiente alegría.
Tardará mucho tiempo en nacer, si es que nace,
un andaluz tan claro, tan rico de aventura.
Yo canto su elegancia con palabras que gimen
y recuerdo una brisa triste por los olivos.