True patriots always die because it is dangerous to love something so easily set on fire.
(Love is something easily set on fire.)
Oh, Lorca, you loved your country, but your country gored you on the horns of its bulls,
of its sacred beasts of cruel geometry, who knew nothing of the ritual that created them.
Can’t you love yourself and love your country and love the country that exists inside yourself?
Can’t you love the dirt and love the water and love the wind that leaves new pollen in the streets?
Can’t you love a man and love the church and love the candles that turn into burning pillars?
Passion is more than its fiery culmination. Lorca’s Spain was more than its murder.