Every afternoon in Granada,
Every afternoon: a boy dead.
Every afternoon the water
Sits down to talk with friends.

The dead raise up their wings of moss.
The winds from the clear and the cloudy skies
Are two pheasants in flight through the towers,
And day a wounded little child.

Not a streak of a lark was left in the sky
When I found you in the grottoes of wine.
Not a crumb of a cloud was left in the ground
When you lay drowned by the riverside.

A giant of water fell on the hillside
and the valley was bounding with lilies and dogs.
With my hands' violet shadow, your body lay
Dead on the shore: an archangel of cold.