The distant hills appear with their smooth reptilian undulations.
The infinitely crystalline transparencies reveal themselves in dim splendor. The shadows hold night in their tangles, and the city begins to shed its idle veils, rendering visible its cupolas and its ancient towers illuminated by a soft golden light.
The houses reveal faces with empty eyes among the verdure, and the grasses, poppies and vines dance entertainingly to the sound of the breeze from the sun.
The shadows are lifting and vanishing languidly, while in the air there is a piping of ocarinas and reed-flutes produced by the birds.
In the distance there are confusions of mist and heliotrope among the poplar groves, and now and then, in the dawn freshness, is heard a distant bleating in the key of F.
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Along the valley of the Darro, anointed with blue and dark-green, fly pigeons from the countryside, whiter or darker, according to whether they come to rest beneath the poplars or beneath masses of yellow flowers.
The sober bell-towers are still asleep, except for some small bell on the Albaizín ingenuously quivering from its cypress tree.
The rushes, reeds and fragrant grasses are bent down to the water so as to kiss the sunlight whenever it should be reflected there…
The sun appears, almost without brightness….and in that moment the shadows lift and vanish, the city is tinted pale purple, the mountains turn to solid gold, and the trees acquire the brilliance of an Italian ascension.
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And all the softness and paleness of indecisive blues changes to splendid luminosity, and the ancient towers of the Alhambra are illuminated with roseate light…the houses with their whiteness, and the shadows, exchanging brilliant greens.
The sun of Andalucia begins to sing its song of fire which all things listen to with fear.
The light is so marvellous and unique that the birds crossing the air are rare metals, solid rainbows and red opals….
The mists of the city start to lift covered in heavy incense….the sun shines and the sky, pure and fresh before, turns a dull white. A water-mill begins its sleepy serenade…a cock crows, remembering the dawn glow, and the mad cicadas of the Vega tune their violins to intoxicate themselves with melody.
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Text of “Summer Dawn” from Federico Garcia-Lorca’s piece “Granada”, featuring impressions of the city in 1918. Source: poetryintranslation.com
