Around the Block



Murdered by the sky.
Amid forms that edge toward the serpent
and forms that search out the crystal,
I will let my hair grow.

With the tree of stumps that doesn’t sing
and the child with the white face of an egg.

With the little animals of broken head
and the tattered water of dry feet.

With everyone who is tired deafmute
and the butterfly drowned in the inkwell.

Stumbling with my face distinct every day.
Murdered by the sky!


Federico Garcia Lorca