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Friday, May 6, 2011

Romance de la Luna, Luna

Romance de la Luna, Luna

Federico Garcia Lorca
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The moon came to the forge

   with her skirt of white, fragrant flowers.
   The young boy watches her, watches.
   The boy is watching her.

In the electrified air
   the moon moves her arms
   and points out, lecherous and pure,
   her breasts of hard tin.

Flee, moon, moon, moon.
   If the gypsies were to come,
   they would make with your heart
   white necklaces and rings.

Young boy, leave me to dance.
   When they come, the gypsies
   will find you upon the anvil
   with closed eyes.

Flee, moon, moon, moon.
   Already I sit astride horses.
   Young boy, leave me, don’t step on
   my starched whiteness.

The horse rider approaches
   beating the drum of the plain.
   Within the forge the young man
   has closed eyes.

Through the olive grove they come,
   the gypsies –  bronze and dreaming,
   heads lifted
   and eyes half closed.

Hark, hear the night bird –
   how it sings in the tree.
   Across the sky moves the moon,
   holding the young boy by the hand.

Within the forge the gypsies cry,
are crying out.
   The air watches over her, watches.
   The air is watching over her.