I'm Explaining a Few Things
Brother, my brother!
and clocks, and trees.
look at broken Spain :
gunpowder from then on,
the bulls eye of your hearts.
and the great volcanoes of his native land?
loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,
with its dogs and children.
My house was called
from under the ground
its words and drilling them full
of Spain tower like a tide
to drown you in one wave
instead of flowers,
and from then on fire,
pile-ups of palpitating bread,
vipers that the vipers would abominate!
leapt out of the earth
oil flowed into spoons,
Everything
bandits with black friars spattering blessings
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,
Come and see the blood
Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you remember
of pride and knives!
without fuss, like childrens blood.
In the streets!
Come and see
which w99lib.netill one day find
Remember, Raul?
my balconies on which
from every house burning metal flows
the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,
And one morning all that was burning,
the weather vane falters,
the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which
a suburb of Madrid, with bells,
And youll ask: why doesnt his poetry
and from every crime bullets are born
and the blood of children ran through the streets
I 藏书网lived in a suburb,
geraniums burst: it was
of feet and hands swelled in the streets,
stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
speak of dreams and leaves
metres, litres, the sharp
from every socket of Spain
Jackals that the jackals would despise,
a leather ocean.
a good-looking house
see my dead house,
one morning the bonfires
You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?
The blood in th九九藏书网e streets.
the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?
Come and see the blood in the streets.
and the rain repeatedly spattering
generals:
came through the sky to kill children
Spain emerges
Bandits with planes and Moors,
and from then on blood.
Treacherous
Face to face with you I have seen the blood
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
measure of life,
Im Explaining a Few Things
t九*九*藏*书*网he stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statue
Pablo Neruda
devouring human beings --
of apertures and birds?
like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:
From there you could look out
and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?
Ill tell you all the news.
the house of flowers, because in every cranny
stacked-up fish,
a deep baying
over Castilles dry face:
wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.