You are going to ask: and whe lilacs?

    and talled metaphysics?

    and tedly spattering

    its hem full

    of apertures and birds?

    Ill tell you all the news.

    I lived in a suburb,

    a suburb of Madrid, h bells,

    and clocks, and trees.

    From t

    over Castilles dry face:

    a leather ocean.

    My house was called

    the house of flowers, because in every cranny

    geraniums burst: it was

    a good-looking house

    s dogs and children.

    Remember, Raul?

    Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you remember

    from under the ground

    my balconies on which

    t of June droh?

    Brother!

    Everything

    loud  of merchandises,

    pile-ups of palpitating bread,

    talls of my suburb of Arguelles s statue

    like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:

    oil floo spoons,

    a deep baying

    of feet and reets,

    metres, litres, the sharp

    measure of life,

    stacked-up fish,

    texture of roofs h a cold sun in which

    ters,

    tatoes,

    omatoes rolling dohe sea.

    And one morning all t was burning,

    one morning the bonfires

    leapt out of th

    devouring human beings --

    and from then on fire,

    gunpohen on,

    and from then on blood.

    Bandits h planes and Moors,

    bandits h finger-rings and duchesses,

    bandits tering blessings

    came to kill children

    and treets