Llanto por Ignacio Sanchez Meijas (Lament for Ignacio Sanchez Meijas)

Early years

There was no prince in Sevilla who could compare to him, nor sword like his sword nor heart so true. Like a river of lions was his marvellous strength, and like a marble torso his firm drawn moderation. The air of Andalusian Rome gilded his head where his smile was a spiked of wit and intelligence. What a great torero in the ring! What a good peasant in the sierra! How gentle with the sheaves! How hard with the spurs! How tender with the dew!

How dazzling the fiesta! How tremendous with the final banderillas of darkness!

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But now he sleeps without end. Now the moss and the grass open with sure fingers the flower of his skull. And now his blood comes out singing; singing along marshes and meadows, slides on frozen horns, faltering souls in the mist stumbling over a thousand hoofs like a long, dark, sad tongue, to form a pool of agony close to the starry Guadalquivir. Oh, white wall of Spain! Oh, black bull of sorrow! Oh, hard blood of Ignacio!

Oh, nightingale of his veins! No chalice can contain it, no swallows can drink it, no frost of light can cool it, nor song nor deluge of white Lillie's, no glass can cover it with silver. The Laid Out Body Stone is a forehead where dreams grieve without curving waters and frozen cypresses. Stone is a shoulder on which to bear Time with trees formed of tears and ribbons and planets. I have seen grey showers move towards the waves raising their tender riddle arms, to avoid being caught by lying stone which loosens their limbs without soaking their blood. For stone gathers seed and clouds, skeleton larks and wolves of penumbra: Now, Ignacio the well born lies on the stone.

The rain penetrates his mouth. The air, as if mad, leaves his sunken chest, and Love, soaked through with tears of snow, warms itself on the peak of the herd. What are they saying? A stenching silence settles down. We are here with a body laid out which fades away, with a pure shape which had nightingales and we see it being filled with depth less holes. Who creases the shroud? What he says is not true! Nobody sings here, nobody weeps in the corner, nobody pricks the spurs, nor terrifies the serpent.

Here I want nothing else but the round eyes to see his body without a chance of rest. Here I want to see those men of hard voice. Those that break horses and dominate rivers; those men of sonorous skeleton who sing with a mouth full of sun and flint.

Here I want to see them. Before this body with broken reins. WorldCat is the world's largest library catalog, helping you find library materials online. Don't have an account? Your Web browser is not enabled for JavaScript. Some features of WorldCat will not be available.

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Lament for the death of a bullfighter and other poems in the original Spanish

In the next three years he was a member of Joselito's team, as the premier banderillero in Spain. In he took his alternativa in Barcelona at the hands of Joselito and with Belmonte also in the ring. His alternativa was confirmed in Madrid in April , and already the characteristics he was known for throughout his career had appeared: Still, Talavera was waiting. On 16 May he was alternating there with Joselito when the bull Bailaor gave his brother-in-law a tremendous, unexpected goring. Afterwards when he went to the infirmary to see his friend, he was already dead.

He watched over the corpse that night, in tears. She was an intelligent, attractive woman, an exceptional performer and great dancer, as was her sister Pilar. In they made their relationship official, but time had passed. They were both famous, rich, intelligent, attractive, and, above all, in love.

He established them in a separate room in his property Pino Montano. In Madrid he had a room in the Palace, although he lived in the house of La Argentinita. She had set to music "Los cuatro muleros" and other popular pieces for him.