I was on the terrace, wrestling with the moon.
Swarms of windows riddled one of the night's thighs.
Placid sky-cattle drank from my eyes
and the breezes on long oars
struck the ashen store windows on Broadway.
...
But I'm sure there are no dancers
among the dead.
The dead are engrossed in devouring their own hands.
--Federico Garcia Lorca from "Dance of Death"
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