In Memory Of Lorca: : (1898 - 1936)

In dreams, his presence seems to speak to me: This fiery flower crushed by frozen steel. His pen was more powerful than rifles. His vast, surreal visions were unrivalled. The world should still weep for one such has him: A bard to counter distraction' s endless din. His voice is so soft, yet strange and distant: Like the echo of the tide, resonant With blue - green meanings, by a seaweed cliff. The light of his spirit helps me resist The monotonous mists of Time. Indeed, Ittransfigures dark, disenchanted streets.