The Audience, Open (a Lorca ‘translation’)

Every morning, start with

a dead star in your mouth.

See the child in the mirror,

covered in rainbows of grey,

put behind him a nest

of summer silence.

Listen to him, his singing

of the night spring,

he reminds of its dew,

and so then the dead star,

its echoflesh mirage,

your day standing still with brightness.

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