Federico Garcia Lorca Quotes

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right, White as a knuckle and terribly upset. It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.

The moon is nothing But a circumambulating aphrodisiac Divinely subsidized to provoke the world Into a rising birth-rate

It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.

There's the moon asking to stay long enough for the clouds to fly me away

What do you do there, moon, in the sky? Tell me what you do, silent moon. When evening comes you rise and go contemplating wastelands; then you set.

If I were the moon, I know where I would fall down.

The new moon rode high in the crown of the metropolis. Shinin', like "Who on top of this?

We ran as if to meet the moon.

Under your skin the moon is alive.

You gazed at the moon and fell in the gutter.

Look at the moon in the sky, not the one in the lake.

the moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy

It is a beautiful and delightful sight to behold the body of the Moon.

The moon, too, abases her subjects, but in the daytime she is ridiculous. Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand, arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity, white and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide. No day is safe from news of you, walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.

[The Moon] was a sobering sight, but it didn't have the impact on me, at least, as the view of the Earth did.

The moon is swimming naked and the summer night is fragrant with a mighty expectation of relief.

a full moon is a flashlight so everyone can see your drama!

Here I came to the very edge where nothing at all needs saying, everything is absorbed through weather and the sea, and the moon swam back, its rays all silvered, and time and again the darkness would be broken by the crash of a wave, and every day on the balcony of the sea, wings open, fire is born, and everything is blue again like morning.

Mary's light is like that of the moon, totally reflected from the sun, the Son of God.

Perhaps the crescent moon smiles in doubt at being told that it is a fragment awaiting perfection.

The moon is such a planet, I can’t even stand it. What else is it if it’s not a planet?