Blood Letter

When she told me that she wrote the letter with her blood I smelt it. Blood red letters winked at me from her letter. A letter written with letters. 'Blood letters', she whispered in my ears. I looked at her. Madness danced in her eyes. Her eyes told me to keep reading the letter. I smelt it again. All I could smell was ink, blood red ink. I looked back at her. She had an unsettling smile on her face. 'This is ink', I told her. Her smile hid behind her mad eyes. Before I could do anything she grabbed a knife and cut her arm. She was bleeding. Something familiar was spreading its smell all around. Ink, blood red ink. She was bleeding ink.

survival

blank walls inside me,

poking me,

laughing at the idea of breathing stones;

dead walking children crying for food crushed me

under their lifeless feet dancing in the sun.

life survived after killing too many lives.

Remembering 'Little Ashes'- movie response

You see a Lorca, a Dali and a Bunuel;
At war with the State,
At war with themselves.
Wandering gypsies
Reminding you of freedom with 'no limit'.
The gypsies are a threat to the Power;
For the poet they are inspiration.
You write a poem
You draw a painting
You take a film
You part ways leaving behind unfulfilled passion, love;
Searching greener fertile pastures,
Paris.
What is Spain for the artist who needs to express his suffocation?
Dali et Bunuel a Paris
'Un chien Andalou'
Lorca, you stay back
Become one with the revolucion
While your friends graze Paris.
Bunuel, you return to the revolucion
Leaving your friend Dali,
Dali who speaks a different language,
Language of money,
Supporter of Franco, the oppressor.
And Lorca, you inspire,
Like the gypsies who inspired you,
You inspire the people to fight
For freedom, for survival.
The poet and the revolucionario residing in you,
Lorca;
When shot the revolucionario dies but the poet lives
Forever.