Dawn – Federico García Lorca

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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