Apologies to Lorca
I am in a city without time
Where food and sex are squeezed out of tubes.
The three friends ascend the green balustrade
To view the changeless sea from the balcony,
Concluding with infinite sadness
That beneath the green, green waters, fathoms
Deep, lie early sunken Greek ships with corroding
I am in a house without a number,
Where food and sleep come at unpredictable hours.
Maria hides behind the purple curtains
As the three friends descend the balustrade,
Talking of white horses with black manes
And comparing the saddle to the mantle piece.
By and by came Lorca himself speaking sadly to his friends:
“Mocitoes, if I can, this house is your house,
And your horse is my horse,
But I am no longer I and my house is no longer my house.”
The three friends bid the old man adios
And vanished in the Andalusian air.
It is said that sadly from Maria’s green, green eyes,
Silver tears began to flow
As the moon climbs further with the night.
I am in a city without a name, galloping
On a horse from the high mountain pass,
heading toward the water, where the silvery streaks
In the moonlight tell of countless sorrows
In a note in a bottle with the script of the Chinese Empress
That no one can read.
Finding the bottle and leaving it remaining on the beach,
The three friends gallop now to another city,
Another city without time,
As the waves undulant, undulant roll in.
Beneath these fathoms of green, green water,
Lie sunken ships with useless treasures.