The Best Fluffy Pancakes recipe you will fall in love with. Full of tips and tricks to help you make the best pancakes.
The guitar beginsto sob.Dawn’s drinking cupssmash.The guitar beginsto sob.You can’tmake it stop.Impossibleto silence it.A monotone of sobslike water,like windover snow.Impossibleto silence it.It sobsfor distant things.Hot Southern sandsimploring white camellias.It sobs for aimless arrow,evening without morning,and the first dead birdon the…
The fieldof olive treesopens and closeslike a fan.Above the olive grovea sunken sky,and a cold dark rainof morning-stars.Half-light and rushes trembleat the river’s edge.Grey air crinkles.The olive treesare freightedwith cries.A flockof captive birdsmoves long long tailsin the gloom.
PrologueAnd so like a shadow our life passes, ever to return, nor we. (Pero López de Ayala, Moral Counsels) I’ve said goodbye to the friends I love most in order to undertake a short yet dramatic journey. Long before sunrise,…
Fragmented evening,field in silence.Bee-eaters in flight,a sigh.Backcloth of blue and whitedeliriums.The landscape opensits arms wide.All too much,Dear God!
The giant tree’s lianasfish rare molesfrom the earth. Over the pool the willowfishes nightingales. . . but the white moon won’t takethe cypress’s green bait. . .nor your heart mine,dark-haired girl of Granada.
A sun without raysspills on green mist. The shaded riversidedreams at the pace of a boatand the unavoidable bellmeasures melancholy. In my spent soulthe sound of a smallsilver drum.
Blue sky.Yellow field. Blue mountain.Yellow field. Across the scorched plainan olive tree drifts. One loneolivetree.
In that place,little girl of the fountain,that place by the river,I’ll take the rosemy friend gave you,and in that place,little girl of the fountain,I’ll give you my lily.Why have I wept so much?It’s all so simple!Surely you know that I’ll…
The reflection iswhat’s real.The riverand skyare doors to take usto the Eternal.Down beds of frogsor beds of bright starsour love will go off, singingthe morning of the great flight.The reflection iswhat’s real.Only a heart remains,only one wind.Don’t weep!Near or far,it’s…
In the meadowmy heart danced (a cypress shadowon the wind) and a tree unplaitedthe dew breeze.Breeze,silver to the touch! I said: do you remember? (The starthe rosedo not concern me.) Remember? Lost language!Languagewithout horizons! Remember? In the meadowmy heart danced…