afieldnotebook

Somnambulist Ballad

Green, how I need you now, green.
Green the breeze. The branches green.
The small boat far on the sea.
The pony on the high sierra.
With shadows on her waistband
She dreams on a veranda,
Green her skin and her hair green
With eyes of icy silver.
Green, how I need you now, green.
Under the gypsy moon,
She is observed by things there,
Things she cannot see.

Green, how I need you now, green.
Gigantic stars of hoarfrost
Come with the fish of shadows
That opens the high road of dawn.
The fig tree scrapes the breeze
With sandpaper of its branches.
The mountain, a filching cat,
Bristles its acrid spikes.
But who's coming? And where from?
She's dreaming on her veranda,
Green her skin and her hair green,
She dreams of the bitter sea.

Good friend, I want to barter
This horse of mine for your house,
My saddle for your mirror,
My dagger for your quilt.
Good friend, I have come bleeding
From the passes of Cabra.
"Had I the might, my boy,
We would strike up this bargain.
But I am no longer I
Nor is my house my own house."
Good friend, I want to die
Decently in my own bed--
If it might be, made of steel,
And the linens of fine holland.
Can't you see the wound I've taken
From my breastbone to my throat?
"On your white shirt you wear
Three hundred swarthy roses.
Your blood is oozing, pungent,
On all sides of your sash.
But I am no longer I
Nor is my house my own house."
Let me at least, then, climb
Up to the high verandas;
Let me climb, then, let me climb
Up to the green verandas;
Balustrades of the moon
Where the water's voice resounds.

Now the two friends are climbing
Up to the high verandas
Leaving a trail of blood,
Leaving a trail of tears.
Tiny lanterns of tin
Were trembling on the rooftops.
A thousand tambourines,
All crystal, lacerate the dawn.

Green, how I need you now, green.
Green the breeze. The branches green.
The two friends have gone up.
A long wind was leaving
A rare taste on the tongue
Of gall, mint and sweet basil.
Good friend, where is she, tell me
Where is your bitter daughter?
"She waited, how often, for you,
How often she would be waiting,
Fresh her face and her hair black,
Here on this green veranda."

Over the face of the cistern
There the gypsy girl wavered,
Green her skin and her hair green,
With eyes of icy silver.
An icicle of the moon
Suspended over the water.
The night turned intimate
As a little village plaza.
Drunken civil guards
Were pounding down the door.
Green, how I need you now, green.
Green the breeze. The branches green.
The small boat far on the sea.
The pony on the high sierra.

-Federico Garcí Lorca