Gacela of the Dead Child

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    <strong>Gacela of the Dead Child</strong>

    Each afternoon in Granada,

    each afternoon, a child dies.

    Each afternoon th<u>99lｉb?</u>e water sits down

    and chats with its panions.

    The dead wear mossy wings.

    The cloudy wind and the clear wi<bdo>..</bdo>nd

    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,

    ahe valley was tumbling with lilies and dogs.

    In my hands violet shadow, your bo<cite>?</cite>dy,

    dead on the bank, was an angel of ess.

    <strong>Federico García Lorca</strong>

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