The Best Fluffy Pancakes recipe you will fall in love with. Full of tips and tricks to help you make the best pancakes.
Virgin with crinoline.Virgin of Solitude,open like a gigantictulip.In your boat of lightsyou moveon the high tideof the cityamong smoky saetasand stars of glass.Virgin with crinoline,you movedown the river of the streetand out to the sea!
Down alleywayscome strange unicorns.From what fieldwhat mythic wood?Closer tothey seem like astronomers.Fantastic Merlins,the Ecce Homo,enchanted Durandarte,Orlando furioso.*
Seville is a towerfull of fine bowmen. Seville for woundsCordoba for death. A city that snaresslow rhythmsand twists themlike labyrinthslike vine-shoots,blazing. Seville for wounds! Beneath the sky’s arc,over its clean plain,the constant saetadart of the river. Córdoba for death! Mad…
Lamp, candle,firefly, lantern. The saeta’sconstellation. Little windows of goldtremble,and in the dawn the swayof cross upon cross. Lamp, candle,firefly, lantern.
The dark bowmenclose in on Seville. Spreading Guadalquivir. Grey broad-brimmed hats,long slow capes. Ay, Guadalquivir! They come from farcountries of pain. Spreading Guadalquivir. And head for a labyrinth.Love, glass, stone. Ay, Guadalquivir!
Cordoba bellsat daybreak.Dawn bellsin Granada.All the girls weepingto the tender, grieving soleárecognize you.The girlsof High Andalusia and Low.Young girls of Spainslight-footed shimmer-skirtedgirls who’ve filled crossroadswith lights.Cordoba bellsat daybreak,and dawn bellsin Granada!
You and I—neither readyto meet.You. . . you know why.I loved her so much!Down this little path.Nail-holesin my hands.Don’t you seemy blood draining?Never look behind you,walk slowly awayand like me prayTo Saint Cayetanofor you and I,neither’s readyto meet.
From the cavecome long laments. (Purpleon red.) The gypsy conjuresdistant lands. (High towers and menof mystery.) His eyes moveto the cracked voice. (Blackon red.) And the whitewashed cavetrembles in gold. (Whiteon red.)
Dressed in black cloaks she thinks the world tiny, the heart immense. Dressed in black cloaks. She thinks the soft whisper and the shout vanish carried off on the wind.Dressed in black cloaks. The balcony was open and at dawn…
He lay in the street, dead,a dagger through his heart.No one knew him.How the lamp shook!Mother.How the little street-lamp shook!It was dawn. No onecould meet his eyes,open to the hard air.For he lay in the street, dead,a dagger through his…