La Muerte del Poeta

(the death of the poet)  
An Ode to Federico Garcia Lorca  
 
 
The glints on mountains speak no words,  
I beg that August sun not rise  
The dust of broken trees and death.  
 
The moon, odd shape of poet’s mouth,  
Dark child, that sings his marching songs  
And holds the wounds of passing light.  
 
The sands, that held the gypsy dance,  
Hold music of the coming dead,  
A sleep remaining undisturbed.  
 
Head bowed to crossed-winged vulture skies,  
From vigil fields of brown stained earth, 
I beg that August sun not rise.          
         
         
(Federico García Lorca was murdered by Franco’s nationalists on August 18, 1936).        
           
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