The Gore and The Death F. G. Lorca - translation

At five in the afternoon,
it was precisely at five,
a boy came with a white sheet
at five in the afternoon.
A basket of limes in the street
at five in the afternoon.
Death and the snow-cold sweat
at five in the afternoon.

The wind indecisive, fickle
at five in the afternoon.
Oxide sprinkled on nickel
at five in the afternoon.
A leopard fighting a dove
at five in the afternoon.
Bruised thighs and a torn off cuff
at five in the afternoon.
Bass strings suffered a stroke
at five in the afternoon.
The arsenic bells and smoke
at five in the afternoon.
Street corners moved apart
at five in the afternoon.
A bull with the drumming heart
at five in the afternoon.
And when the bull came the winner
at five in the afternoon,
when iodine sprayed the arena
at five in the afternoon,
in the wound, in the broken neck
at five in the afternoon
Death laid her pale egg
at five in the afternoon.
At five, precisely at five,
at five in the afternoon.

A coffin, his bed, is near
at five in the afternoon.
Bones played flutes in his ear
at five in the afternoon.
The bull bellowed into his face
at five in the afternoon.
Death knitted the pangs of lace
at five in the afternoon.
In the distance gangrene on its way
at five in the afternoon.
Red trumpets that wounds play
at five in the afternoon.
The wounds that burn like suns
at five in the afternoon.
Crowds and crackling guns
at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon
a horror, this afternoon.
The clocks strike loud and croon
at five in the afternoon.