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Landscape of a Pissing Multitude

 The men kept to themselves:
they were waiting for the swiftness of the last cyclists.
The women kept to themselves: they were expecting the death of a boy on a Japanese schooner.
They all kept to themselves- dreaming of the open beaks of dying birds, the sharp parasol that punctures a recently flattened toad, beneath silence with a thousand ears and tiny mouths of water in the canyons that resist the violent attack on the moon.
The boy on the schooner was crying and hearts were breaking in anguish for the witness and vigilance of all things, and because of the sky blue ground of black footprints, obscure names, saliva, and chrome radios were still crying.
It doesn't matter if the boy grows silent when stuck with the last pin, or if the breeze is defeated in cupped cotton flowers, because there is a world of death whose perpetual sailors will appear in the arches and freeze you from behind the trees.
It's useless to look for the bend where night loses its way and to wait in ambush for a silence that has no torn clothes, no shells, and no tears, because even the tiny banquet of a spider is enough to upset the entire equilibrium of the sky.
There is no cure for the moaning from a Japanese schooner, nor for those shadowy people who stumble on the curbs.
The countryside bites its own tail in order to gather a bunch of roots and a ball of yarn looks anxiously in the grass for unrealized longitude.
The Moon! The police.
The foghorns of the ocean liners! Facades of urine, of smoke, anemones, rubber gloves.
Everything is shattered in the night that spread its legs on the terraces.
Everything is shatter in the tepid faucets of a terrible silent fountain.
Oh, crowds! Loose women! Soldiers! We will have to journey through the eyes of idiots, open country where the docile cobras, coiled like wire, hiss, landscapes full of graves that yield the freshest apples, so that uncontrollable light will arrive to frighten the rich behind their magnifying glasses- the odor of a single corpse from the double source of lily and rat- and so that fire will consume those crowds still able to piss around a moan or on the crystals in which each inimitable wave is understood.

Poem by Federico García Lorca
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Book: Shattered Sighs