Rumor.
Though nothing remains but rumor.
Scent.
Though nothing remains but scent.
But tear out of me memory
and the color of the red-gold hours.
Sorrow.
Facing the magical quick sorrow.
Struggle.
The genuine, the hourly struggle.
But rid me of the invisible people
who forever move about in my house.
—an adaption of Frederico Garcia Lorca, translated by W.S. Merwin.
