Swallows in circles bewildered
whirl from the dark iron bells,
and over the square the gitana
cannot work her spells.
The room is shadowy, tall,
and filled with the murmur of rain.
Indians crouch in the corner
with moonlike saucers of grain.
The bottles of Lachryma Christi
are stored on the spidery shelves,
and the saints of tomorrow groan
as they flagellate themselves.
So what do you think? Dose this sound like a translation from Lorca's gypsy ballads (or imitation) or not? Expain your answer. For bonus points guess the author (without googling please). If you want to google to find out who it was, then does the answer surprise you?
(Hint, an author not primarily known for his poetry.)