Child: Take my white handkerchief
Take my white crown.
Don’t cry any more.
Cat: But it hurts where the children
wounded me on my back.
Child: My heart hurts, too.
Cat: And what did you feel?
Child: Well, I felt
sprinklers and bees around the room.
They tied my hands up. That was bad of them!
The children stared at me through the windowpanes
and a man hammered
paper stars over my box.
(Crossing his hands.)
The angels, they didn’t come, Cat.
Federico García Lorca – When Five Years Pass