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“As I have not worried to be born, I do not worry to die.” Federico Lorca.
What remains in the purpled garden
tattered garments, broken men,
weeds, greed, resurrected, again
your hands around your lover’s waist,
eyes shining with tears.
Come! Taste the brandy,
swill it around your mouth,
look at the azure ocean, huge, unoccupied
so far from Barcelona and the battle for Madrid.
Frederico, you wrote about the pacific ocean long before you saw it,
existing, so far from your birthright
of Moorish poems of loss, dereliction.
Al-andalus, marble perfections of pink, gold and dust
when you were young, you thought
fascists merely kill but, wait, they acquire power
over men’s cruelties, lusts, needs, desires
but nothing can kill the words of your heart
nothing can kill your fight
to understand the many languages of art
as they rip your bones apart, again, looking for the tincture,
that would set them on the road to Treblinka,
in the knowledge of the heart that killed you.
InnerUrban 