Bitter winter mornings, in my head, shoulders and down my spine, my pain
is hewn in the shape of the cross. The cold pounds my hands and feet like nails.
Is that how it went for you, Poeta en Nueva York, self-exiled from sun-baked
Andalucia, hard against the frigid East River wind? Did you know in your bones
there would be no paradise, no loves that bloom and die? Where are the bones,
do they dance beneath the orange trees, do they sing Gypsy ballads to the moon?
Did your heart pound like the hooves of the pony the night of the Blood Wedding?
Did you have to die for love, or did love die for you, too heavy a cross to bear?