Landscape of a Pissing Multitude

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    <strong>Landscape of a Pissing Multitude</strong>

    The meo themselves:

    they were waiting for the swiftness of the last cyclists.

    The womeo themselves:

    they were expeg the death of a boy on a Japanese ser.

    They all kept to themselves-

    dreaming of the open beaks of dying birds,

    the sharp parasol that punctures

    a retly flatteoad,

    beh sileh a thousand ears

    and tiny mouths of water

    in the yons that resist

    the violent atta the moon.

    The boy on the ser was g as were breaking

    in anguish for the witness and vigilance of all things,

    and be></dfn>ause of the sky blue ground of black footprints,

    obscure names, saliva, and e radios were still g.

    It doesnt matter if the boy grows silent when stuck with the last pin,

    or if the breeze is defeated in cupped cotton flowers,

    because there is a world of death whose perpetual sailors will appear in the

    arches and

    freeze you from behind the trees.

    Its useless to look for the bend

    where night loses its way

    and to wait in ambush for a silehat has no

    torn clothes, no shells, and no tears,

    because even the <var></var>tiny ba of a spider

    is enough to upset the entire equilibrium of the sky.

    There is no cure for the moaning from a Japanese ser,

    nor for those shadowy people who stumble on the curbs.

    The tryside bites its own tail in order to gather a bunch of roots

    and a ball of yarn looks anxiously in the grass for unrealized longitude.

    The Moon! The police. The foghorns of the o liners!

    Facades of urine, of smoke, anemones, rubber glov<samp>..</samp>es.

    Everything is shattered in the night

    that spread its legs oerraces.

    Everything is shatter iepid faucets

    of a terrible silent fountain.

    Oh, crowds! Loose women! Soldiers!

    We will have to jourhrough the eyes of idiots,

    open try where the docile cobras, coiled like wire, hiss,

    landscapes fu<u>9９liｂ.</u>ll of graves that yield the freshest apples,

    so that untrollable light will arrive

    thten the rich behind their magnifying glasses-

    the odor of a single corpse from the double source of lily and rat-

    and so that fire will e those crowds still able to piss around a moan

    or on the crystals in which ea<cite></cite>imitable wave is uood.

    <strong>Federico García Lorca</strong>

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