gh the anemones of the piers.
in the vomiting multitude,
and summoning the demon of bread through the skys clean-swept hills
Theres no other way, my son, vomit! Theres no other way.
and the sorrow of the kitchens buried in sand,
The fat lady, the moons antagonist,
was running through the streets and deserted buildings
nor the vomit of cats that inadvertently swallowed frogs,
did the entire city rush to the railings of the boardwalk.
who turns dying octopuses inside out.
The look on my face was mine, but now isnt me,
I protect myself with this look
that flows from waves where no dawn would go,
and leaving tiny skulls of pigeons in the corners
The fat lady came out first,
There were murmuring from the jungle of vomit
on flint gates where clouds and desserts decay.
The fat lady went first
where the bitter tropics could be found.
Only when a flag went up and the first dogs arrived
with the crowds from the ships, taverns, and parks.
The graveyards, yes the graveyards
and stirring up the furies of the last centuries feasts
the naked look on my face, trembling for alcohol
and filtering a longing for light into subterranean tunnels.
who serve platters of salt beneath harps of saliva.
I, poet without arms, lost
who were begging the moon for protection.
and the crowds kept looking for pharmacies
but the dead who scratch with clay hands
and launching incredible ships
tearing out roots and moistening drumskins.
with no effusive horse to shear
with fermented trees and tireless waiters
pushing it into our throat.
the dead, pheasants and apples of another era,
Its not the vomit of hussars on the breasts of their whores,
Who could imagine my sadness?
The fat lady
Vomit was delicately shaking its drums
the thick moss from my temples.
Federico García Lorca
with the empty women, with hot wax children,