to Federico Garcia-Lorca
the paper birds won't sing here anymore
the crystal birds can't fly - they say
the moon is leaving home
and I don't know why
the children turn away
from oranges from sweets from ruby fountains
how softly the angels
carried their carnations
on the day
your windmill was repealed-
Quixote having no tears left
bowed down under
a moon of shaded green…
how stars of pomegranate
should rain down
and the silver sea grow olive-colored
as it did beneath your gaze-
but words can no longer be found
for so many things and the soul sheds
golden wings and aureoles unknowingly.
they will not ambush
your hidden flights of jade
poetry my wounded bird poetry
my wounded bird
mary angela douglas 17 november 2009
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