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...

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