Gacela of the Dead Child by Federico Garcia 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.

by Federico Garcia Lorca

Other poems by 'Federico Garcia Lorca'

Romance Sonombulo

Ballad of the Moon

City That Does Not Sleep

The Weeping

Lament For Ignacio Sanchez Mejias

Sonnet of the Sweet Complaint

Train Ride

Weeping

Arbol?, Arbol? . . .

Ditty of First Desire

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