Lorca in the Bronx
When the moon rises
The pulleys will turn to disturb the sky:
A boundary of needles will fence in the memory
And the coffins will carry away those who do not work
New York of slime
New York of wires and death:
What angel do you carry hidden in your cheek?
What perfect voice will tell you the truths of the wheat?
Who, the terrible dream of your stained anemones?
The pulleys will turn to disturb the sky:
A boundary of needles will fence in the memory
And the coffins will carry away those who do not work
New York of slime
New York of wires and death:
What angel do you carry hidden in your cheek?
What perfect voice will tell you the truths of the wheat?
Who, the terrible dream of your stained anemones?