Song of the Moon, Moon
for Conchita
García Lorca
The moon came to the forge
with her bustle of nards.
The boy looked upon her, looked
and looked still.
In the stirred-up air
the moon moves her arms
and reveals, erotic and pure,
her breasts of hard tin.
Run moon, moon, moon.
If the gypsies come,
they will twist your heart
into white necklaces and rings.
Boy, let me dance.
When the gypsies come
they'll find you atop the forge
with your little eyes closed.
Run moon, moon, moon,
I can already hear their horses.
Boy, leave me alone, don't tramp on
my starch whiteness.
The rider approached
tapping the tambourine of the plain.
Inside the forge the boy
had his eyes closed.
Through the olive grove they came,
the gypsies, all bronze and dreams.
Their heads raised up,
their eyes half shut.
Oh, how the owl sings,
how the tawny owl sings in the tree!
Through the sky the moon went
and took the boy by the hand.
Inside the forge they weep,
and shout, the gypsies do.
And the air mourns, it mourns,
the very air is mourning.
–Federico García Lorca
Tr. Ben Harnett