Only a single bird is singing. The air is cloning it. We hear through mirrors. - Federico García Lorca

Everyone understands the pain that accompanies death,
but genuine pain doesn't live in the spirit,
nor in the air, nor in our lives,
nor on these terraces of billowing smoke.
The genuine pain that keeps everything awake
is a tiny, infinite burn
on the innocent eyes of other systems.

¡Que no quiero verla! Dile a la luna que venga,
que no quiero ver la sangre
de Ignacio sobre la arena. ¡Que no quiero verla!

There is nothing more poetic and terrible than the skyscrapers' battle with the heavens that cover them. Snow, rain, and mist highlight, drench, or conceal the vast towers, but those towers, hostile to mystery and blind to any sort of play, shear off the rain's tresses and shine their three thousand swords through the soft swan of the fog.