POR FEDERICO, AGOSTO 2004

 

 

Hola Lorca:

I was there

at the Fountain of Tears

yesterday,

and today

I can imagine

your spirit

in the clear, cool waters

between

plants of

brilliant shades of green,

standing and swaying

alive in the water,

moving with the bubbles of tears;

it is a pretty place,

one could have

a worse place –

and,

you have your mountains

and olive trees,

moons,

when the nights are right.

You died

ten miles,

as the eagle flies,

from your birthplace,

where your younger spirit

erupted from the mirror

by the piano –

a huge arc

of light

shooting across

your photograph,

and,

a ghostly image

of a face,

forever frozen

on the wall.