Suicide (translation by Alan S. Trueblood)
(Maybe it was because you hadn’t
mastered your geometry)
The lad was going blank.
It was ten in the morning.
His heart was growing full
of broken wings and rag flowers.
He noticed there remained
just one word on his lips.
And when he took off his gloves
a soft ash fell from his hands.
A tower showed through the balcony door.
He felt he was balcony and tower.
No doubt he saw how the clock,
stopped in its case, surveyed him.
He saw his shadow quiet and prone
on the white silk divan.
And the stiff, geometrical youth
smashed the mirror with a hatchet.
When it broke, a great burst of shadow
flooded the illusory room.
by Federico Garcia Lorca (1898-1936)