This February, we are bringing back the digital poetry column, where the best poets sing the praises of our humble company. Today, part of the Ballad of the Moonrover by Federico García Lorca.
The moon came into the forge
in her bustle of flowering nard.
The little boy stares at her, stares.
The boy is staring hard.
In the shaken air
the moon moves her amrs,
and shows lubricious and pure,
her breasts of hard tin.
“Moonrover, moonrover, run!
If the gypsies come,
they will use your heart
to make white necklaces and rings.”
Feel free to be inspired by our Feverup (US) offer with up to 7.69% payout, like Spanish poet was.
Ballad of the Moonrover by Lorca
