The Murder of Lorca

 THE MURDER OF LORCA

It was done at the Great Spring,
Where blood red roses grow tall,
It was I who denounced him,
We brutes seized him that hot night,
And the story I now tell,
Is what happened sure and true,
When death came for the poet,
His fine head was bowed and hooded,
And crossed before the Divine,
He stayed a man, did not crack,
When death came to the poet,
I turned away, could not look,
As a brute aimed his pistol,
At such a delicate brain,
Then dumb lead snuffed out that soul,
When I turned back, death remained,
And Lorca was no longer

That night, I sank to my knees,
Amidst the reddest roses,
And offered my confession,
I shouted to the heavens,
And the Devil answered me,
In the clinging heat, cold blood,
Bubbled in the pure waters,
As if Lorca could re-form,
Then the waters remained still,
It was murder in hot steel,
I saw it all and stood small,
I had come to denounce him,
Then I wandered in the cold,
And crossed myself with his blood,
Death had come and gone, marked me,
I pleaded for forgiveness,
For Lorca was no longer

The next day it rained and stormed,
The blood red roses turned black,
And all who knew Lorca wept,
A legend had been profaned,
It was I who denounced him,
My kin cannot look at me,
They turn away from me now,
I turn away from myself,
Death will come for me and go,
For I denounced the poet,
If only I had believed,
And bowed my head instead,
Even at the cost of lead,
A bullet to my own head,
I denounced Lorca, the poet,
I come to denounce myself,
For Lorca is no longer