you feel like bringing wreaths to the temple,
a circlet of gold leaves, tremblant,
but thick as the laurels
Or how the eucalyptus
is still fragrant after a year inside.
I am frightened as we cling,
too old to disbelieve atrocity.
From the Long Walls we saw Andromache
dragged from bed into the burning streets.
It is never incredible:
Federico García Lorca
flung in a grave
with two thousands others,
face up, face down,
in an olive grove outside the city limits.
But, oh, we have conquered
a beautiful kingdom.
Figs and grapes ripen
over the Villa Malcontenta.