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

 

what remains in the purpled garden

tattered garments 

resurrected in all honesty

your hands around your lover’s waist,

eyes shining with tears 

taste the brandy 

swilling around your mouth

look at the azure ocean,

so far from Barcelona and the battle for Madrid

you wrote about the pacific ocean

so far from our Moorish poems of loss and dereliction

Al-andalus, marble perfections of pink and gold,

you always thought

fascists  merely kill

but  nothing can kill the words of the heart

could not kill the fight

to understand the many languages of the heart

as they rip our bones apart, looking for the tincture

of the heart that killed you.