Lamenta por El Poeta

-- for & after Federico Garcia Lorca

On the morning of his death

he stepped between the guns –

between the guns, I say,

the poet walked to his sleep

en l’alba encalmada.

“I will stand no more weeping.”

Sitting silent in dark silence,

waiting for the soldiers –

his last audience,

the applause of gunfire waiting.

On the gravel outside

sounded the tires.

Rising from the chair, he crushed his cigaret

put on his white jacket,

he straightened the silk bowtie

then walked between the soldiers –

the poet stepped between their guns:

he had know the party

might end like this.

He climbed into the truck,

helped up by one young soldier

and the shaking hands

of one of the condemned.

On the rough wooden bench he sat

like a king

and placed a gentle hand

on the folded canvas top:

“I will stand no more weeping.”

In the corner of the truck

an old man looked bored,

smoking his last cigaret –

a professor who had inspected life

now accepted his fate

as they rode toward the quiet dawn.

Between the guns the poet rode,

he rode between the guns, I say,

the thin farmer next to him

leaning heavily

with hands hard as oak.

Their bodies swayed together

as they moved through the turns

through the scattered trees

of this once-fertile land

soon to be strewn with the bodies of the dead.

“I will stand no more weeping.”

And the bandilleros,

stripped now of sequined suits,

rode with him to the final dawn,

between the guns they rode,

between the guns, I say,

and all of Spain weeping.

Tears stained the face

of the boy who would soon fall with him,

future of Spain

biting into the fear

which he too could feel –

the beautiful youth who would die

staring into the poet’s sightless eyes.

Between the guns they rode,

toward the inevitable dawn,

between the guns, I say,

to that death in the Spanish road.

In the last moonlight,

dark shadows of trees, in the last moonlight,

the hope of a country,

in the last moonlight,

the heart of a people

beating solemn notes of fear

in the last moonlight,

and the answering notes of courage.

Sound of a truck on the dusty road,

sweep of headlights,

then orders to climb down

(Between the guns)

and moonlight kisses a poet’s white suit.

Now the soldiers laugh, point into the darkness.

(Between the guns, I say)

And now the men walk down the road condemned.

(Between the guns)

Now the boy looks back

but the poet’s hand is on his shoulder:

“Venga.”

And now the flash of the rifles,

hot bullets seek a home.

And in the silent dawn…. only echoes.

On the morning of his death

he stepped between the guns:

“I will stand no more weeping”

in the last moonlight

the heart of a nation

and all of Spain wept.

~ Hakim, from Dreams of Others (the Pastiche Poems)

© 2011 Hakim - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: use without profit allowed only with author’s express written permission. Please don't wake up my attorney. Please.