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. Iām 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.'