<html><head></head><body style="word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; -webkit-line-break: after-white-space; "><p>Dawn</p><p>Dawn in New York has<br>four columns of mire<br>and a hurricane of black pigeons<br>splashing in the putrid waters.<br>Dawn in New York groans<br>on enormous fire escapes<br>searching between the angles<br>for spikenards of drafted anguish.</p><p>Dawn arrives and no one receives it in his mouth<br>because morning and hope are impossible there:<br>sometimes the furious swarming coins<br>penetrate like drills and devour abandoned children.</p><p>Those who go out early know in their bones<br>there will be no paradise or loves that bloom and die:<br>they know they will be mired in numbers and laws,<br>in mindless games, in fruitless labors.</p><p>The light is buried under chains and noises<br>in the impudent challenge of rootless science.<br>And crowds stagger sleeplessly through the boroughs<br>as if they had just escaped a shipwreck of blood.</p><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> - Federico García Lorca</span></div></body></html>