Each afternoon in Granada,each afternoon, a child dies.
Each afternoon the water sits downand chats with its companions.
The dead wear mossy wings.
The cloudy wind and the clear windare two pheasants in flight through the towers,and the day is a wounded boy.
Not a flicker of lark was left in the airwhen I met you in the caverns of wine.
Not the crumb of a cloud was left in the groundwhen 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.
