As I have not worried to be born, I do not worry to die." Frederico Garcia Lorca

All that remains of the purpled garden

 are the tattered garments of aniquity

resurrected in all honesty

by your hands around your lover’s waist,

eyes shining with tears

as you taste the brandy of eternity

swilling around your mouth

and look at the azure ocean,

so far from Barcelona and the battle for Madrid

you wrote about the stormy ocean seemingly

so far from our Moorish poems of loss and dereliction.

Al-andalus, marble perfections of pink and gold,

you always thought

fascists' sole desire was merely to kill;

but nothing kills those words of the heart

with which you sought 

to understand the many languages of tomorrow

as they ripped your bones apart, looking for the tincture

of the heart that killed you.