Dawn in New York has <br />four columns of mire <br />and a hurricane of black pigeons <br />splashing in the putrid waters. <br /> <br />Dawn in New York groans <br />on enormous fire escapes <br />searching between the angles <br />for spikenards of drafted anguish. <br /> <br />Dawn arrives and no one receives it in his mouth <br />because morning and hope are impossible there: <br />sometimes the furious swarming coins <br />penetrate like drills and devour abandoned children. <br /> <br />Those who go out early know in their bones <br />there will be no paradise or loves that bloom and die: <br />they know they will be mired in numbers and laws, <br />in mindless games, in fruitless labors. <br /> <br />The light is buried under chains and noises <br />in the impudent challenge of rootless science. <br />And crowds stagger sleeplessly through the boroughs <br />as if they had just escaped a shipwreck of blood.<br /><br />Federico García Lorca<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dawn-86/
