Dawn Poem by Federico García Lorca
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.
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10/12/2024 12:21:33 AM # 1.0.0
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.