The street


That street were Lorca was.
Time ago.
Now, over the mud, a thousand tons of cement.
Money from Europe.
Money for fireworks.
Money for seafood.
Money not for food.
Money for the petrol company.
Not many money for the sea.
That times, at Argentina, Lorca said words about Compostela.
About the sea.
Here no granite, but cement.
Cement over Lorca.
Forgetfulness over his words.

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