It was my sleepy voice
of sea and people,
the worn out hands of the dog,
the impassive eye still weeping of veins
and old men dying,
the flutter between rower and cricket,
and the murmur of thousand year old mouths.

I want to create
a dense and bitter poetry,
of slime and moss and animals urinating.
To create anomalies only the perfect drifter
would have knowledge of.
To establish the seahorse,
to strike the bell, to envision the dance,
to stride, to float as brilliantly as you,


*Federico Garcia Lorca (1898 – 1936)