He Was Born Murdered

It looks like writing sometimes fails me. I have tried to write a good amount of words on the WIP, today, but it didn't work as I wanted. Yet, this morning, out of the blue, I wrote a poem inspired by Federico García Lorca's murder. Images and words blended together in less than 2 minutes. I incorporated three of Lorca's lines in it, too. It amazes me how he had predicted his own death and that his body would be buried in a mass grave. The prescience of poetry? Or, the darkness of duende?

Then I realized I had been murdered...
They never found me?
No. They never found me.


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