Lorca

On my back the heat of pockmarked adobe.
Before me, rifles stare with black pupilless eyes.
At my feet the trench exhales dirt smell.
Beyond are scarlet anemones.

In six minutes they will fire
and we will fall like blossoms
before scythes at harvest.
In five minutes they will fire
and we will fall forward into darkness.
The thirsty earth will crimson with blood.

You will never find my bones.
By spring I will have risen like a whirlwind of dust.
By spring I will have risen like a field of anemones.
You will not find me in this mass grave.

In four minutes they will fire
and set me free.
Three minutes more of Lorca,
then an eternity of anemones.


--for Big Tent's first prompt: Persona poem.
Image courtesy of Wikipedia.
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