Behind our Roman aqueduct back wall
at three a.m., the moon like a yellow
buffoon sings over the gray hills and all
the sugarcane is shining in the campo.
Quinces and mother-of-pearl olive groves
fragrance the clouds. I smell mint and spikenard.
The full moon is dashing up the sky, her glow
is chasing carbines of the Civil Guard.
Moon lights the song trembling behind her eyes.
In a girl’s voice, like Homer she sings blind:
Mira, mira la lunita, con su carita empolva.
Guards drape killed bodies on the mules. Sick mind
of the Caudillo’s fascist years is a
black moon of executions and Church lies.