To Federico García Lorca
Not of the sharp thunderbolts the color
but of dry fields, shiny gold
washed out from the contempt of life
now faded and deformed by boredom.
Notof the mangled screams sound,
roaring and impudent
but of the scrap of the leaf
of the cricket looking for mimesis.
Not the malignant stench of asphyxiation
but of the unripe nectar
of graceful zags and moons
who shyly undress at night.
Not even the outrage of being dragged
but the caresses reciprocated by the nards
the teeming ferns to protect
and the greasy juniper berries.
Not the mush of hatred in the mouth
but the juices of myrtle and agave
essences of laurel and bread
fragrant of the life of moments.
When I touch lightly the bright purple
that tinges the entrancing white
in the magnolia, I speak to you.