Federico Garcia Lorca


A tree of blood soaks the morning where the newborn woman groans. Her voice leaves glass in the wound and on the panes, a diagram of bone. The coming light establishes and wins white limits of a fable that forgets the tumult of veins in flight toward the dim cool of the apple. Adam dreams in the fever of the day of a child who comes galloping through the double pulse of his cheek. But a dark other Adam is dreaming a neuter moon of seedless stone where the child of light will burn.

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