The Duende ought to visit me tonight.
That pixie ought bring me something fresh,
Words cut from fresh wounds and bright,
Burning embers from embraces of flesh
No longer felt. I have written it before
But, I have nothing more for me to say.
I feel no real motion but the cold floor
Of a world that revolves without a sway.
I’m tired of all my words, my old theories,
Like ghosts that always haunt the same ways.
They slid through walls, lifted invisibly
And flew from lips without a fall. A phrase
Of enchantment, now looms, stiffly stirring
And reminding me of dead things.
Lorca writes: "The duende, then, is a power, not a work. It is a struggle, not a thought. I have heard an old maestro of the guitar say, 'The duende is not in the throat; the duende climbs up inside you, from the soles of the feet.'