Dawn by Federico García Lorca

Dawn
Federico García Lorca  

Dawn in New York has
four pillars of muck
and a hurricane of black pigeons
splashing in the putrid waters.

Dawn in New York moans
on the immense staircases
searching between the corners
for spikenards of depicted anguish.

Dawn arrives and no one receives it in his mouth
because neither morning nor hope are possible:
at times furiously swarming coins
perforate and devour abandoned children.

The first to arise know in their bones
there will be neither paradise nor leafless loves:
they know the muck of numbers and laws awaits them,
of simple-minded games, of fruitless labor.

The light is buried by chains and noises
in a shameless challenge to rootless science.
Insomniacs stagger around in each district
like refugees from a shipwreck of blood.

 

Willard Bohn, translation

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