Five in the Afternoon

Goran Bregović/Traditional - Ederlezi (1988: Dom za vešanje/Time of the Gypsies)

I. Cogida and Death

At five in the afternoon. 

It was exactly five in the afternoon. 

A boy brought the white sheet 

at five in the afternoon. 

A frail of lime ready prepared 

at five in the afternoon. 

The rest was death, and death alone 

at five in the afternoon. 

The wind carried away the cotton wool 

at five in the afternoon. 

And the oxide scattered crystal and nickel 

at five in the afternoon. 

Now the dove and the leopard wrestle 

at five in the afternoon. 

And a thigh with a desolate horn 

at five in the afternoon. 

The bass-string struck up 

at five in the afternoon. 

Arsenic bells and smoke 

at five in the afternoon. 

Groups of silence in the corners 

at five in the afternoon. 

And the bull alone with a high heart! 

At five in the afternoon. 

When the sweat of snow was coming 

at five in the afternoon, 

when the bull ring was covered in iodine 

at five in the afternoon. 

death laid eggs in the wound 

at five in the afternoon. 

At five in the afternoon. 

Exactly at five o'clock in the afternoon. 

A coffin on wheels is his bed 

at five in the afternoon. 

Bones and flutes resound in his ears 

at five in the afternoon. 

Now the bull was bellowing through his forehead 

at five in the afternoon. 

The room was iridescent with agony 

at five in the afternoon. 

In the distance the gangrene now comes 

at five in the afternoon. 

Horn of the lily through green groins 

at five in the afternoon. 

The wounds were burning like suns 

at five in the afternoon, 

and the crowd was breaking the windows 

at five in the afternoon. 

At five in the afternoon. 

Ah, that fatal five in the afternoon! 

It was five by all the clocks! 

It was five in the shade of the afternoon! 

By Federico García Lorca (Spain, 1898–1936)

From the poem: Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías

Nymph - Snow Song (2010: Nymph)

CXXIII

I BREATHED enough to learn the trick,  

  And now, removed from air,  

I simulate the breath so well,  

  That one, to be quite sure  

   

The lungs are stirless, must descend          

  Among the cunning cells,  

And touch the pantomime himself.  

  How cool the bellows feels!

By Emily Dickinson (USA,1830–86)

From the poem: Time and Eternity