They are searching for Lorca's remains again
today, their big yellow machinery
nudging and clawing at the silent earth,
along this withered patch of soil.
Though no one is here now to answer them,
no one to say, No thank you, sirs,
I'm not interested in returning,
and your Bible is no map for my soul.
But they have not questioned the cloud formations
in passing, nor the monuments of generals,
nor the crooked olive trees, unwaveringly lazy
in their beauty, witnesses to all.
No one has called in the sun and moon
to spit out their long and secret songs, explain
their absence when needed most.
No one has yet knocked upon my door,
demanding to peruse the shelves,
where they would surely find the one they seek,
still speaking, unafraid, his linen suit
not even wrinkled.
But the workers, naturally, will go on
with their labors, long past sunset,
coming back empty handed, the shapes of
new countries emerging through their shirt-sweat,
while the poet just goes on dreaming,
as he did a hundred years ago,
the witnesses to his whereabouts
now seemingly everywhere.
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