From our old friendship I never thought I'd ever remember again How a whole tribe, such a strange group To me and maybe no less strange to you, Adopted you. But one of that tribe, A professor and, according to him and others Over there (which shows how far our land has fallen), A poet, called you "my prince." And I ask myself what you ever did that he Could have come to think of you as his prince. Academic claptrap? His writings are full of clichés And conventional thinking. But his rapturous rhetoric Does nothing to clarify our understanding Of the mystery in your work, even though he's also called A critic of our contemporary poetry. The appropriation of you, which you wanted Nothing to do with when you were alive, Is what now seems to me so utterly strange. The prince of a toad? Isn't it enough For your countrymen to have killed you? And now stupidity succeeds the crime.
Translating Garcia Lorca
for Pablo Medina the danger is not that he'll take over my poems but that when it happens I won't know (image of cow, of horse of cadaver or sleepy river or a pure and less than innocent love) so when someone points it out I won't see— already eaten devoured