Gacela Of The Dead Child – Federico García Lorca

Each afternoon in Granada, 

each afternoon, a child dies. 

Each afternoon the water sits down 

and chats with its companions. 
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 down over the 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 coldness.

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