On August 18, 1936,
a 38-year-old Spanish poet
named Federico García Lorca
was taken from a jail cell
in the city of Granada,
escorted to a courtyard
in the hills outside the city,
and executed for the crime
of loving life and Spain.
Bullets are as lethal to poets
as to anyone else.
Lorca died and fell
and was buried in a rude grave
just where he hit the ground.
His books were burned
in the public square.
What the Fascist beasts
failed to understand
in their deadly ferocity
was that killing a poet is easy,
but killing his poems is impossible.
Franco is long dead,
his Fascist minions scattered,
but Lorca's poems sing
more sweetly than when he breathed
and the Spain he loved
listens with eager ears
and chants them with living joy.