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| A Portrait of Federico Lorca |
In a moment of confusion,
an uninvited shadow with
a medal dangling proudly
around his neck slithered
into the poet’s bedroom.
Wounded verses poured
from the young man’s mouth
into a leaden night of sorrow,
searching for the stolen moon.
It is dawn now in Alfacar;
the poet is serene and peaceful.
We can see the sky in his eyes,
but the sky is made of glass—
cracked and painted red.
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