http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Federico_Garc%C3%ADa_Lorca

Dusk in New York hasn’t
three pillars of ecstasy
nor the benign grace of white doves
basking in the perfume of ponds.

Dusk in New York gloams
off tremendous window panes
soft chic ends edge sharply
looming over brooding despair
looking up at prosperity scraping the air.

Dusk descends and vermin hatch claims:
sometimes the raging pockmarks of coins
dominate like hammers
and instill insatiable hunger
in the meager; the powerless
growing number of homeless children.

Those who venture late know in their flesh
there will be no sublime love that blossoms from N.Y.’s breath
from disastrous systematic flaws
that maze people in rat races
hollowing the following masses
chasing dollars
into the jaws of economic collapses.

Darkness unearths the freedom to remain silent—
smog trails arrogant puzzles of baseless aggression
and singular souls step sleeplessly past the boroughs,
entering another life
as if they had just emerged from a subway station of blood.