Federico García Lorca

(5 June 1898 – 19 August 1936 / Fuente Vaqueros)

Dawn


Dawn in New York has
four columns of mire
and a hurricane of black pigeons
splashing in the putrid waters.

Dawn in New York groans
on enormous fire escapes
searching between the angles
for spikenards of drafted anguish.

Dawn arrives and no one receives it in his mouth
because morning and hope are impossible there:
sometimes the furious swarming coins
penetrate like drills and devour abandoned children.

Those who go out early know in their bones
there will be no paradise or loves that bloom and die:
they know they will be mired in numbers and laws,
in mindless games, in fruitless labors.

The light is buried under chains and noises
in the impudent challenge of rootless science.
And crowds stagger sleeplessly through the boroughs
as if they had just escaped a shipwreck of blood.

Submitted: Monday, March 29, 2010
Edited: Tuesday, September 13, 2011

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  • Bob Reed (8/1/2014 2:31:00 AM)

    Lorca, The Dawn (NYC)


    The dawn of New York
    has four muddy columns
    and a hurricane of black pigeons
    splashing in putrid puddles.

    The dawn of New York moans
    through tall fire escapes
    looking among the edges
    for shards of anguish.

    Dawn comes and no one can swallow it
    because here there is no redemption and no hope.
    Sometimes swarming hoards of coins are enough to
    devour abandoned children.

    The first that wake know in their bones
    that today there will be no paradise or love found
    they know today they will be dragged down in the mire of numbers and laws
    in artless games and the fruitless sweat of their brows.

    Creeping crepuscular light captured by chains and noise
    in a swamp of irreverent rootless science,
    and in the boroughs the people wander half conscious
    like survivors of a catastrophe. (Report) Reply

Read all 3 comments »

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