You are going to ask: and whe lilacs?
and talled metaphysics?
and tedly spattering
its hem full
of apertures and birds?
Ill tell you all the news.
I lived in a suburb,
a suburb of Madrid, h bells,
and clocks, and trees.
From t
over Castilles dry face:
a leather ocean.
My house was called
the house of flowers, because in every cranny
geraniums burst: it was
a good-looking house
s dogs and children.
Remember, Raul?
Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you remember
from under the ground
my balconies on which
t of June droh?
Brother!
Everything
loud of merchandises,
pile-ups of palpitating bread,
talls of my suburb of Arguelles s statue
like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:
oil floo spoons,
a deep baying
of feet and reets,
metres, litres, the sharp
measure of life,
stacked-up fish,
texture of roofs h a cold sun in which
ters,
tatoes,
omatoes rolling dohe sea.
And one morning all t was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of th
devouring human beings --
and from then on fire,
gunpohen on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits h planes and Moors,
bandits h finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits tering blessings
came to kill children
and treets
fuss, like childrens blood.
Jackals t the jackals would despise,
stones t tle e on and spit out,
vipers t te!
Face to face he blood
of Spain toide
to drown you in one wave
of pride and knives!
treacherous
generals:
see my dead house,
look at broken Spain :
from every al flows
instead of flowers,
from every socket of Spain
Spain emerges
and from every dead ch eyes,
and from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
ts.
And youll ask: w ry
speak of dreams and leaves
and t volcanoes of ive land?
Come and see treets.
Come and see
treets.
Come and see the blood
In treets!