A tree of blood soaks the morning
where the newborn woman groans.
Her voice leaves glass in the wound
and on the panes, a diagram of bone.

The coming light establishes and wins
white limits of a fable that forgets
the tumult of veins in flight
toward the dim cool of the apple.

Adam dreams in the fever of the clay
of a child who comes galloping
through the double pulse of his cheek.

But a dark other Adam is dreaming
a neuter moon of seedless stone
where the child of light will burn.

by Federico García Lorca

Comments (1)

Adam's bone... where Eve began and was formed... She was made for him and him for her.... The apple made Him choose her... Exiled, outcast...against the world.... She bore him a child.... Pained, to pay for the bone, a rebirth.... a hope that this child... would one day pay for their error.....