Women are the ones moving the pages of Lorca's drama; the men are seated there on the sidelines, or walking between the lines.

But the women are the ones who with the puff of their breath turn the pages successively one after another. They are the ones who enable the written sheets to take off in flight and come to life with the wind of their passions.

And pouring out of their fervent veins is the red ink filling the poet's best syllables with truth.

Lorca's women move around, and at their feet lies the geography of pleasure and pain.
Their shoes are an atlas encompassing the continents of feeling.

Their footprints are the travel logs of the soul.
Words turned into muscle dance, spelling out every articulation of living.

The vowels and consonants regard one another in silence and suddenly burst out dancing, in unison, the vowels and consonants dance, and they blend into their choreography, joining to shape the words of these universal women. Lorca's women…