and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,

pile-ups of palpitating bread,

from every socket of Spain

the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which

of pride and knives!

Come and see the blood

and from every crime bullets are born

and clocks, and trees.

came through the sky to kill children

the weather vane falters,

and from then on fire,

bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,

vipers that the vipehttps://read.99csw.comrs would abominate!

of Spain tower like a tide

The blood in the streets.

bandits with black friars spattering blessings

My house was called

the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statue

wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.

which will one day find

And one morning all that was burning,

Brother, my brother!

a deep baying

Spain emerges

metres, litres, the sharpｒｅａｄ•９９ｃｓｗ.com

of feet and hands swelled in the streets,

generals:

and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?

Remember, Raul?

Everything

Jackals that the jackals would despise,

instead of flowers,

and the great volcanoes of his native land?

Come and see

Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you remember

I lived in a suburb,

without fuss, like childrens blood.

loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,

the light of June drowhttps://read.99csw.comned flowers in your mouth?

Face to face with you I have seen the blood

gunpowder from then on,

In the streets!

its words and drilling them full

the house of flowers, because in every cranny

from every house burning metal flows

measure of life,

stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,

Treacherous

the bulls eye of your hearts.

geraniums burst:九九藏書 it was

from under the ground

a leather ocean.

and from then on blood.

one morning the bonfires

my balconies on which

speak of dreams and leaves

and the rain repeatedly spattering

leapt out of the earth

Ill tell you all the news.

And youll ask: why doesnt his poetry

stacked-up fish,

look at broken Spain :

a suburb of Madrid, with bells,

with its dogs and children.

devouring human beinghttps://read.99csw.coms --

the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,

From there you could look out

a good-looking house

Bandits with planes and Moors,

Come and see the blood in the streets.

You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?

over Castilles dry face:

oil flowed into spoons,

like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:

of apertures and birds?

see my dead house,

and the blood of children ran through the streets

to drown you in one wave