Dawn in New York has
four columns of mud
and a hurricane of black pigeons
paddling through foul waters.
Dawn in New York groans
along vast staircases,
seeking in its margins
a cure for the outline of a heartache.
Dawn comes and no one receives it in his mouth,
because there is no tomorrow and no possible hope.
Sometimes coins cascade in furious swarms
puncturing and devouring the abandoned children.
The first to come out understand in their bones
that there will be no paradise, nor love laid bare:
They know they will be mired in numbers and laws,
in mindless games, and in fruitless labors.
The light stays buried beneath noises and chains,
beneath the arrogant challenge of a rootless science.
And sleepless people stumble through the neighborhoods,
as though just delivered from a shipwreck of blood.
Federico Garcia LorcaTranslated from Spanish by Paul Weinfield, © 2014