AND THE OLIVES STILL GROW
I read the words carefully while thinking my own I can not say I am dissapointed In fact I am happy for this out come though I shall not smile They did not find Lorca The blood drenched man The softly hurt thinker The Poet who Franco butchered then threw in the ground The prince of the fine gypsy night was supposedly hidden beneath an olive tree on the side of a mountain road With three other man who he was killed with but nothing was found but Spanish earth The sort Our friend Loved so much...