Gacela of the Dead Child
Each afternoon in Granada,
each afternoon, a child dies.
Each afternooer sits down
and chats with its panions.
The dead wear mossy wings.
The cloudy wind and the clear wind
are two pheasants in flight through the towers,
and the day is a wounded boy.
Not a flicker of lark was left in the air
when I met you in the caverns of wine.
Not the crumb of a cloud was left in the ground
when you were drowned in the river.
A giant of water fell dowhe hills,
and the valley was tumbling with lilies and dogs.
In my hands violet shadow, your body,
dead on the bank, was an angel of ess.
Federico García Lorca
(ò﹏ò)
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