Creosote Seed Pod — Image by kenne
If the blue sky is a fantasy,
what will become of innocence?
What will become of the heart
if Love has no arrows?
And if death is death,
what will become of poets?
and things in a cocoon
which no one remembers?
Oh sun of hopes!
Clear water! New moon!
Dull souls of stones!
Today I sense in my heart
a vague tremor of stars
and all roses are
as white as my sorrow.
— from Autumn Song by Federico García Lorca
