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