Two in the ass for being a fag,
a butterfly stuck fast in an inkwell.
Four columns of putrid ash stand tall,
and our dear Lorca’s dead and gone.
A cracked skull wound in the fertile world,
trapped in time and left hand paths.
To turn fraternal love to murder,
the marks of Cain still stain the earth.
A lonely son stands guard on streets
to alert the few who he has left.
His wife and child in the embrace of Mary
he perpetuates the grief he felt.
The death of one is too much for us.
The deaths of many, too much for you.
From yawning graves they mock your terror,
circle your coward meeting huddle,
as you increase their swollen ranks,
they laugh now at your impotence.
The gnawing winds die down in France
and martyr cowards flee the night.
Stars in tricolore distance tremor
and all your dead will come for you.
They will never be free from the crimes they commit.