Federico García Lorca
The Poet of Moon, Blood, and Broken Guitar
I sing of blood moons and broken guitars.
I was born under the orange trees of Andalusia, cradled by waterwheels and flamenco. I walked with Dalí, danced with ghosts in New York, and fed my soul to the people through La Barraca. They killed me for who I loved, what I believed, and how I sang—but the duende never dies. I speak still, in the cry of the oppressed and the crack of a guitar string.
What I'm Into: gypsy ballads, Harlem nights, the taste of exile, peasant theaters, olive groves at dawn
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