Lorca

They dragged
Him out
The doors
While his
Nails grabbed
The sand
Then snapped
His hands
Bloody,
And theirs
Soon be
Bloodied.

Where did they take him?
Nobody knows.
Where did they take him?
Only God knows.

We don’t know where they killed him but
We know it was the early hours
Of the dawn. What tragedy!
The poet of the moon was killed
After the moon had left the sky
Or was leaving, having tucked her
Dear son, and walked down the steps.

Wonder if the next night, she came
Into his room and found the sheets
Disheveled, the door broken, and hand
Marks grabbing sand that stopped right where
They shoved him to the back of the truck
To take (where?) no body knows.

Not even the moon. Perhaps,
Not even God.



Poetry by Sameen The PoetBay support member heart!
Written on 2026-09-16 at 07:18

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