Who has not seen the gypsies,
dream and bronze,
their heads held high,
their hooded eyes?
I heard them early today,
coming through the streets,
bringing news of the most
recent apocalypse—
In their hands the smell
of leveled mountains,
and in their hair the blue
persistence of dreams.
Night clung to the folds
of their sleeves, and green
forest burr. In their mouths,
the names of those too soon
surrendered. I was not afraid
and I held a window open: I called
though I knew they would not spare
my friend. They were us and I
was them, riding hard beneath
the olive ripple of leaves,
a sorrowful psalm of clouds,
the sun’s hook of trembling gold.
~ in memoriam, Rhodora Montemayor Palinar
In response to Via Negativa: Killing Lorca.