Two Have Not Been Never a Number

I feel like I owe Lorca an apology.

Pequeño Poema Infinito

Equivocar el camino
es llegar a la nieve
y llegar a la nieve
es pacer durante veinte siglos las hierbas de los cementerios.

Equivocar el camino
es llegar a la mujer,
la mujer que no teme la luz,
la mujer que no teme a los gallos
y los gallos que no saben cantar sobre la nieve.

Pero si la nieve se equivoca de corazón
puede llegar el viento Austro
y como el aire no hace caso de los gemidos
tendremos que pacer otra vez las hierbas de los cementerios.

Yo vi dos dolorosas espigas de cera
que enterraban un paisaje de volcanes
y vi dos niños locos que empujaban llorando las pupilas de un asesino.

Pero el dos no ha sido nunca un número
porque es una angustia y su sombra,
porque es la guitarra donde el amor se desespera,
porque es la demostración de otro infinito que no es suyo
y es las murallas del muerto
y el castigo de la nueva resurrección sin finales.
Los muertos odian el número dos,
pero el número dos adormece a las mujeres
y como la mujer teme la luz la luz
tiembla delante de los gallos y los gallos
sólo saben volar sobre la nieve
tendremos que pacer sin descanso las hierbas de los cementerios.

I ran Lorca's "Pequeño Poema Infinito" through a simple computer translator a line at a time to see what would happen.

Small Infinite Poem

To mistake the way
it is to arrive at the snow,
and to arrive at the snow,
it is to graze during twenty centuries the grass of the cemeteries.

To mistake the way
it is to arrive at the woman,
the woman who does not fear the light,
the woman who does not fear the roosters
and the roosters that do not know to sing on the snow.

But if the snow is mistaken of heart
the wind can arrive South wind
and as the air does not pay attention to the moaned ones
we will have to again graze the grass of the cemeteries.

I saw two painful wax ears
that buried a volcano landscape
and I saw two crazy children that they pushed crying the pupils of an assassin.

But the two have not been never a number
because it is an anguish and its shade,
because it is the guitar where the love is hopeless,
because it is the demonstration of another infinite that is not his
and it is the walls of the dead and the punishment of the new
resurrection without end. The deads hate number two, but number two
induces sleep to the women and as the woman fears the light the light
it shakes in front of the roosters and the roosters
only know to fly on the snow
we will have to graze without rest the grass of the cemeteries.

I apologize, Federico Garcia Lorca. A much better translation, a real translation, is here at Spanish Poems.