Spain, nineteen thirty-seven.
We pass five graves: a nun,
four altar boys who'd done
nothing to enter heaven
decades before their time,
but be the victims of rape.
Red bullets, crimson tape,
are bedfellows to the crime.
A black patch on one eye,
Fernando coughs to begin.
Grief burns his cheeks and chin,
and then he tells me why.
I swear I can still hear
his voice amid my thoughts:
'For this we fired two shots
into the faggot's rear.'
Leo Yankevich
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lorca-s-death/
