THE CRY
The ellipse of a cry
travels from mountain
to mountain.
From the olive trees
it appears as a black
rainbow upon the blue night.
Ay!
Like the bow of a viola
the cry has made the long
strings of the wind vibrate.
Ay!
(The folks from the caves
stick out their oil lamps.)
Ay!
THE SILENCE
Listen, my son: the silence.
It’s a rolling silence,
a silence
where valleys and echoes slip,
and it bends foreheads
down towards the ground.
-from Federico García Lorca’s 1921 Poem Of The Deep Song
Many other windy nights go by.