On the East River and the Bronx
teaching the boys sang their waists,
with the wheel, oil, leather and hammer. Ninety thousand miners
drew silver from the rocks and the children drew
stairs and perspectives.
But no one slept,
none wanted to be the river, none loved
large leaves, none
bluetongue from the beach.
On the East River and the Queensborough
the boys struggled with the industry, and the Jews sold
the faun of the Rose River
circumcision and the sky flowed over the bridges and rooftops
herds of bison driven by wind.
But none stopped, none wanted to be
cloud, looking none
ferns and yellow wheel the drum.
When the moon rises to overthrow the pulleys roll heaven
needle close to a limit of memory
and the coffins will be those who do not work.
silt New York, New York
wire and death.
angel What have you hidden in your cheek? What perfect voice
tell the truths of the wheat?
Who the terrible dream of stained anemones?
Not a single moment, beautiful old Walt Whitman,
I failed to see your beard full of butterflies,
nor your corduroy shoulders frayed by the moon, nor your thighs
Apollo's virginal,
nor thy voice like a column ash;
old
beautiful as the mist that moaned like a bird with sex
pierced by a needle,
enemy of satyr
enemy of the vine and the lover of the bodies under rough cloth. No time
,
manly beauty in mountains of coal, announcements and railways,
dreamed of being a river and sleep like a river
with that comrade who would your chest pain
an ignorant little leopard.
Not a single moment, Adam's blood, macho, man
alone at sea, beautiful old Walt Whitman,
it from the rooftops,
grouped in the bars, coming in bunches
sewers,
trembling between the legs of the chauffeurs
or turning on the platforms of wormwood,
fags, Walt Whitman, I dreamed.
that also! Too! And they hurl
light on your beard and caste
North blond, black sand,
crowds shouting and gestures,
as cats and snakes,
fags, Walt Whitman, the pansies
turbid tears meat for the whip, boot or bite
tamers.
that also! Too!
stained fingers point to the edge of your dream
when a friend eats your apple
with a slight taste of gasoline and the sun sings
the navels of the boys who play under bridges.
But you did not look scratched eyes,
or darkest swamp where children dive, or saliva
icy curves
or injured as a frog belly queers
carrying cars and terraces as the moon
hits in the corners of terror.
you were looking for a nude that was like a river,
dream bull wheel coupled with the algae,
father of your agony, your death Camellia,
and moan in the flames of your hidden Ecuador.
Because it is just that men do not find your delight in the forest
blood the next morning.
Heaven has beaches where life is avoided and there are bodies
not be repeated in the morning.
Agony, agony, dream, ferment and sleep.
This is the world, my friend, agony, agony.
Dead decompose under the watch of cities, the war goes
crying with a million gray rats,
the rich give their loved ones dying young
illuminated
and life is not noble, nor good, nor sacred.
Man can, if you will, driving your desire
by coral or blue vein bare.
Tomorrow loves rocks and Time will be a breeze that comes
sleeping through the branches.
why not raise my voice, old Walt Whitman, against the child
girl's name written on his pillow,
or against the guy who dresses as a bride
in the darkness of the wardrobe, nor the solitary
of casinos in disgust
drinking water prostitution,
or against green-eyed men
who love men and burn their lips in silence.
But against you, queers of cities,
of tumescent flesh and unclean thoughts,
mud mothers, harpies, sleepless enemies
Love partitioning crowns of joy.
against you always, to give boys dirty drops
death with bitter poison. Against
you always, Faeries
North American Birds
Havana Jacks
Mexico, Sarasa
of Cadiz, Seville
celery, Cancer
Madrid, Alicante
Floras,
Adelaide of Portugal.
Queers around the world, murderers of pigeons! Slaves
women bitches its vanities,
open squares
fan fever or stiff ambushes landscape of hemlock.
no quarter! Death
flows from your eyes and gray flowers grouped on the banks of silt.
no quarter! Warning! That
confused, cigars,
the classics, those identified
supplicants I shut the doors of the bacchanal.
And you, beautiful Walt Whitman, sleep on the banks of the Hudson
with chin toward the pole and open hands.
Soft clay or snow, your tongue is calling
comrades to ensure your body gazelle.
Sleep, nothing remains.
A dance of waving prairie
walls and America drowns itself in machinery and tears.
I want the strong air of the deepest night
remove flowers and letters of where you sleep
bow and a black child to announce
white gold coming of the kingdom of the post.
Federico García Lorca (1898-1936)
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