The poem
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.