Saturday, January 19, 2013

Lorca, excerpt Fable and Round of the Three Friends

I had killed the fifth moon
and the fans and the handclapping drank at the fountains.
The milk of the newly delivered, still tepid and sealed,
troubled the roses with its long white grief.
Diana is hard,
but sometimes her bosom goes cloudy.
Even the white stone may pulse in the blood of a stag
and the stag have its dream in the eyes of a stallion.

When the pure forms collapsed
in the cri-cri of daisies,
it came to me that they had murdered me.


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