by Federico García Lorca
He lay in the street, dead,
a dagger through his heart.
No one knew him.
How the lamp shook!
Mother.
How the little street-lamp shook!
It was dawn. No one
could meet his eyes,
open to the hard air.
For he lay in the street, dead,
A dagger through his heart,
and no one knew him.
-from Selected Poems