She won't come -- she was torn by the dogs,
Beaten to death by the skinheads,
A crack in a treacherous ice

Her hands weren't prepared to fight,
not wanting to win
I'll be instead of her

She's swimming in the formalin,
The imperfection of lines
Is moving slowly
I have her face, and her name
And my blue sweater's the same,
Nobody noticed this change

She won't come -- her hands were in snakepit
Her head in the wasps' nets
And her back in the ant-hill

I'm stronger than her
Deserve taking her place
I'm better at so many things

She's swimming in the formalin
Moving slowly
In the thick white fog
I have her face and her name
Nobody noticed the change
I'm checking the keys in the pocket

Perhaps I'm playing something wrong
I don't know these people
Smiling a little strange

If they suspect that I'm not her
I don't know what's coming-
I'll pretend being drunken or ill

"Estas manos que son tuyas,
pero que al verte quisieran
quebrar las ramas azules
y el murmullo de tus venas.
¡Te quiero! ¡Te quiero! ¡Aparta!
Que si matarte pudiera,
te pondría una mortaja
con los filos de violetas.
¡Ay, qué lamento, qué fuego
me sube por la cabeza!"

Bodas de sangre. Federico García Lorca.