Home Sweet España
Las amapolas like little blood-tears
que dicen adios desde la tierra,
whispering between the Spanish-loud train chatter
while the song in my head hums,
jazzy English clumsy
like three suitcases in two hands,
dragging along words
que luchan para huir de la oscuridad de despedirse
¿y qué? Could i montage all my little selves
and speak in labored chords,
or cough them up
para que, entre las amapolas, duerman?
