García Lorca,

sing me awake
with melodies of Galicia
that sob and pulse
with a century's anguish.

I love the fact
of your hard tears,
poet of birth-blood
and crystalline plainsong,
poet of dangerous lilacs.

Sing me awake
with your several tongues
of liquid starlight

and of fidgeting rivers,

sing me awake

with your secret voices

of metropolitan angels
who throb and sweat

in midnight alleyways

sequestered from official scrutiny.