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

 

What remains? A purple garden?

Tattered garments, broken men.

Weeds and greed,

Magic you resurrected, once again,

Hands around your lover’s waist,

Spending time evading fate.

 Taste the brandy,

swill it round 

the azure ocean of your heart. 

Your justice was staying alive

Just one more day

¡No pasarán!

Oh! Frederico Oh! Pacifico!

The magic of existence was your birthright,

 Your Moorish poems of loss, you found

Al-andalus's marbled perfections

Of pink, lemon and earthy brown

Scattered all around.

Fascists murdered you

But left your words behind.

Exposing cruelties, lusts, desperations, desires 

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 fascist tincture,

On their road from Spain to Treblinka,