Yoing to ask: and whe lilacs?

        and talled metaphysics?

        and tedly spattering

        its hem full

        of apertures and birds?

        Ill tell you all the news.

        I lived in a suburb,

        a suburb of Madrid, h bells,

        and clocks, and trees.

        From t

        over Castilles dry face:

        a leather o.

        My house was called

        the house of flowers, because in every y

        geraniums burst: it was

        a good-looking house

        s dogs and children.

        Remember, Raul?

        Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you remember

        from uhe ground

        my balies on which

        t of June droh?

        Brother!

        Everything

        loud    of merdises,

        pile-ups of palpitating bread,

        talls of my suburb uelles s statue

        like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:

        oil floo spoons,

        a deep baying

        of feet as,

        metres, litres, the sharp

        measure of life,

        stacked-up fish,

        texture of roofs h a cold sun in which

        ters,

        tatoes,

        omatoes rolling dohe sea.

        And one m all t was burning,

        one m the bonfires

        leapt out of th

        dev human beings --

        and from then on fire,

        gunpohen on,

        and from then on blood.

        Bandits h planes and Moors,

        bandits h finger-rings and duchesses,

        bandits tering blessings

        came to kill children

        and treets

        fuss, like childrens blood.

        Jackals t the jackals would despise,

        sto tle e on and spit out,

        vipers t te!

        Face to face he blood

        of Spain toide

        to drown you in one wave

        of pride and knives!

        treacherous

        generals:

        see my dead house,

        look at broken Spain :

        from every al flows

        instead of flowers,

        from every socket of Spain

        Spain emerges

        and from every dead ch eyes,

        and from every crime bullets are born

        which will one day find

        ts.

        And youll ask: w ry

        speak of dreams and leaves

        and t voloes of ive land?

        e areets.

        e and see

        treets.

        e ahe blood

        Is!
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