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