Federico Garcia Lorca
The New York dawn has four columns of mud and a hurricane of black doves that paddle in putrescent waters. The New York dawn grieves along the immense stairways, seeking amidst the groins spikenards of fine-drawn anguish. The dawn comes and no one receives it in his mouth, for there no morn or hope is possible. Occasionally, coins in furious swarms perforate and devour abandoned children. The first to come out understand in their bones that there will be no paradise nor amours stripped of leaves: They know they are going to the mud of figures and laws, to artless games, to fruitless sweat. The light is buried under chains and noises in impudent challenge of rootless science. Throught the suburbs sleepless people stagger, as though just delivered from a shipwreck of blood.