Federico Garcia Lorca

Back From a Walk

Murdered by the sky. Among the forms that move toward the snake and the forms searching for crystal I will let my hair grow. With the limbless tree that cannot sing and the boy with the white egg face. With the broken-headed animals and the ragged water of dry feet. With all that is tired, deaf-mute, and a butterfly drowned in an inkwell. Stubmling onto my face, different every day. Murdered by the sky!

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