-- 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.
