In Memory of Garcia Lorca
In Memory of Garcia Lorca
In my mind I see the clock
Is always five in the afternoon,
In my moons there are knives strangling
The night.
From my window I feel your eyes
Touching far away what was close to the heart,
The soil and blood of your people.
I remember the nights we flattered
By the sound of your music
Against the music of crickets wiping
Their legs together.
In some bestiary of my own you find
My soul made new in the animal clawing
The night away.
It was not the first time
I died that you died.
The way I see you lined up
After being dragged out of a warm house
Is not the way you want it.
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