In our eyes the roads
are endless.
Two are crossroads of
the shadow.
Death always emerging
from those secret fields.
A woman working a garden:
teardrops like flowers
she breaks.
Horizonless pupils.
Virgin forests
we're lost in.
Castle of no return
that you reach
from the road that starts in the iris.
Oh boy without love, may God
set you free from red ivy.
And you, Elenita,
who sit there
embroidering neckties,
keep clear of that traveler.


Federico Garcia Lorca