By Luis Garcia

Don’t look forward,
and don’t look back
because the Rolling Stones
have painted
the White House black.

I’m sure you see,
see what I mean.
I’m sure you mean,
mean what I see.

I’m sure you’re as mean,
as mean as you seem
because you constantly
dig up and bury
the same old dream.

Blue women in blue coats
are crossing blue streets.
Blue men in blue coats
are crossing blue streets,

and blue streets
choked with blue smoke
and blue rain
are crossing themselves.

I’m sure you see,
see what I mean.
I’m sure you mean,
mean what I see.

Now don’t look forward,
and don’t look back
because the Rolling Stones
have painted
the White House black.

By Luis Garcia

To Catch a Leaf
for Fernando Alegria

Rich refusals,
odd silences,
obscene gestures,
familiar demons:

he found these words
on his back pages;
he found these words

locked in cages;
he thinks of them
as his only wages.

He’s busy trying
hard to try.
He’s busy trying
not to sigh.

He’s busy trying
not to cry.
He’s busy trying
not to lie.

He’s busy trying
to stay alive
instead of being
busy dying.

He’s busy stealing
toward the morning.
He’s busy stealing
toward the afternoon.

He’s busy stealing
the leaves from the branches
of rain–soaked trees

and the brilliant blossoms
that are growing
from the craters of the moon.

He found these words
on his back pages.
He found these words

locked in cages.
He thinks of them
as his only wages.

By Francisco Muñoz Soler

For her disobedience,
for abandoning the path of submission
and that of the figure of justice
who grants everything to those who
for feeling his steps
and hurls wrath
on those who abandon it,
for defending her dream
which is but a moment of eternity,
because it will be her experience
and this neither God nor Death
can snatch away.

By Francisco Muñoz Soler

Hatred strikes them incessantly
who pay the price for the sin
of being different or believing differently,

an everyday cruelty
sheltered by stigmas
that trivializes the horror,

hatred which perseveres, seduces,
permeating the weak
offering them identity and refuge,

a country reduced to ashes
where wounds germinate
and the sun is always distant.