Sleepwalking Romance

This is something i wrote on poetry class for my masters program. I am working on doing a bigger poem for you guys.

Sleepwalking Romance (Sonombulo Romantico)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
translated by Luis Enrique Mendez Angulo

Green, I crave you green.
Green wind. Green vines.
The boat at sea
and the horse on the mountain.
With gloom along her waist
she dreams on her balcony,
green flesh, green hair,
with cold, silver eyes.
Green, I crave you green.
Under the gypsy moon,
things are watching her
and she can’t see them.

Green, I crave you green.
Large stars of frost,
they come with shadow’s fish
that comes before the dawn.
The fig tree rubs against the wind
with the sandpaper of its vines,
and the bush, that thief,
bristles his sour seeds.
But, who’d come? From where?
She stays at her veranda,
green flesh, green hair,
dreaming in the bitter sea.

Friend, want to change
my horse for your house,
my saddle for your mirror,
my knife for your mantle.
Friend, I come bleeding,
from Cabra’s gates.
If I could
I’d close these dealings.
But I’m no longer myself,
My house no longer mine.
Friend, I want to die
simply in my bed.
From steel, it can be,
with blankets from Holland.
Don’t you see my wound
from chest to throat?
Three hundred brown roses
carried by your white apron.
your blood oozes and it smells
about you.
But I’m no longer myself.
My house is no longer mine.
Atleast let me climb
to the highest veranda,
let me go
up to the green banister.
Railing of the moon
where the water falls.

Now come two friends
toward the high balconies.
Leaving a trail of blood.
Leaving a trail of tears.
On roofs trembled
tin lanterns.
A million tombourines of light
pierced the morning.

Green, I crave you green,
green wind, green vines.
The two friends walked up.
The strong wind left
a strange taste on their lips
of bitterness, of mint and basil.
Friend! Tell me where you are?
Where’s your bitter child?
How many times I’ve waited!
How much longer should I wait,
fresh face, black hair,
on this green veranda!

On the face of the cistern
the gypsy-woman rocked.
Green flesh, green hair,
with cold, silver eyes.
The moon’s procession
holding her over the water.
Night became quiet
like a small plaza.
Drunk “Civil Guard”
banged at the door.

22 Nov. 2010


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