Here is a poem by Federico Garcia Lorca from "Poeta en Nueva York." It is translated by Luis Valadez, a My Space Friend of La Vedette, Gloriella.
New York Dawn has
four mire columns
and a black pigeon hurricane
that splashes putrid waters.
New York Dawn wails
on immense staircases
looking between the edges for
drawn anguish spikenards.
Dawn arrives and no one receives it in their mouth
because neither hope nor tomorrow are possible.
Sometimes furious swarms of coins
drill and devour abandoned children.
The first to go out know in their bones
that there will be no paradise or defoliating lovers.
They know they go to mire of laws and numbers,
to artless games, to fruitless toils.
The light is buried in chains and noise,
in the shameless challenge of rootless science.
The neighborhoods have people that vacillating insomnious
like they’ve recently discharged from a bloody shipwreck.