Later On (a Lorca ‘translation’)

Time, to be honest,
so much like crying
when the last hour comes,
inconsolable in its own silence.

So off with the boneclothes
surrounding the heart
with all its sickness.

Waiting for winds laden
with unpublished landscapes.

Bloom, bloom with running
and ineffable dresses,
other bones and other hearts
stacked broad with minutes
that were so honestly lost
behind, unheard when clattered.

Oceanfront winds and flotsam
dying to be eternal.

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