by Federico García Lorca. Translated by Robert Bly
The sunrise of New York has four columns of filth and a hurricane of black pigeons that putter in the putrid waters.
The sunrise of New York groans up the immense staircases searching along the sharp edges for etched spice-plants of anguish.
The sunrise arrives, and no one opens his mouth to receive it, because neither tomorrow nor hope is possible here. Only now and then mad swarms of nickels and dimes sting and eat the abandoned children.
The first to leave their houses know in their bones there'll be no paradise and no love without leaves; they know they are going to the filth of numbers and laws,to the games anyone can play, and the work without fruit.
The light is already buried by chains and noises in the ugly threat of science that has no roots. Through the suburbs people who cannot sleep are staggering as though recently rescued from a shipwreck of blood.
La aurora de Nueva York tiene cuatro columnas de cienoy un huracán de negras palomas que chapotean las aguas podridas.
La aurora de Nueva York gime por las inmensas escaleras
buscando entre las aristas
La aurora llega y nadie la recibe en su boca
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