As I have not worried to be born, I do not worry to die.” Federico Lorca.

 

What remains? A purpled garden?
Some tattered garments, a stained guitar, broken men who loved you. 
Weeds and greed.

The magic you had resurrected, returned to the orange groves and the ocean.
Hands around your lover’s waist,
Spending time evading fate.
Taste the brandy,
swill it around your famished mouth.

The azure ocean of my heart
fell apart with your murder.
your justice was staying alive
just one more day.

¡No pasarán!
Oh! Frederico Oh! Pacifico!
The full texture of existence was your birthright,
Your Moorish poems of loss, 
Al-andalus’s marbled perfections in pink and lemon 
Orange and earthy brown
Art scattered all around you.

The falange fascists murdered you
But they left your words behind, thinking them of no
consequence. They were wrong:
exposing cruelties, lusts, desperations, desires, dreams, agonies.
Nothing could kill the words of your stolen Roma heart
Nothing could kill your fight for the many languages of art
As they ripped your bones apart
Seeking  that especial  fascist tincture,
On their road from Guerinca to Treblinka,