Poem – Knocked Out

Blame me not, as 
i’m knocked out by 

my fancies false, 
those utter incessantly 

from abyss, 

and tune a noisy chant, 
and poisoning this broad 

earth. I dream of a morrow 

to see a new world.
I, in this endless journey, 

am suffering but

not yet done. 
So don’t piss me off, 

let me trade my anguish

first, then will rest awhile. 

Poem – Dawn 

O tender first cold flush of rose,

O budded dawn, wake dreamily ;

Your dim lips as your lids unclose

Murmur your own sad threnody.

0 as the soft and frail lights break

Upon your eyelids, and your eyes

Wider and wider grow and wake,

The old pale glory dies.
And then, as sleep lies down to sleep

And all her dreams lie somewhere dead,

The iron shepherd leads his sheep

To pastures parched whose green is shed.

Still, 0 frail dawn, still in your hair

And your cold eyes and sad sweet lips,

The ghosts of all the dreams are them,

To fade like passing ships. 

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.