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Friday, May 6, 2011

Prendimiento de Antoñito el Camborio en el Camino de Sevilla

Prendimiento de Antoñito el Camborio en el Camino de Sevilla

Federico Garcia Lorca
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Antonio Torres Heredia,
son and grandson of Camborios,
a willow wand in his hand,
went to Seville to see the bulls.
Dark-skinned as the green moon,
slowly he strolls but with grace,
his blue-polished tresses
shinning between his eyes.
He cuts some round lemons
and in the middle of the road
throws them in the water
until it turns to gold.
And in the middle of the road,
beneath the branches of elm,
the Civil Guard goose step by,
and bear him off, arm in arm.
Slowly the day goes by,
the evening hangs upon one shoulder
of a matador’s cape, sweeping
over the sea and the small rivers.
The olive trees are awaiting
the night of Capricorn,
and over the leaden mountains
a sharp breeze leaps like a stallion.
Antonio Torres Heredia,
son and grandson of Camborios,
a willow wand lost from his hand,
between five tri-corner hats.


Antonio, what sort of man are you?
If you call yourself Camborio’s boy,
you should have made out of them
five fountains spurting their own blood.
You are not a real Camborio,
you are no one’s son.
There are no more gypsies left,
no one walks the mountain alone!
Their old knives lay rusting,
Shivering, under dirt and rock.

At nine o’clock that night
they brought him to the jail,
while the Civil Guards
drank lemonade.
At nine o’clock that night
they shut him up in jail
while they night sky shone
like a rump of a new foal