Romance of the moon and the child

Romance de la luna, luna.


Federico García Lorca

La luna vino a la fragua  
con su polisón de nardos.  
El niño la mira, mira. 
El niño la está mirando.  

En el aire conmovido  
mueve la luna sus brazos  
y enseña, lúbrica y pura,  
sus senos de duro estaño.  

Huye luna, luna, luna.  
Si vinieran los gitanos,  
harían con tu corazón 
collares y anillos blancos.
Niño, déjame que baile.  
Cuando vengan los gitanos, 
te encontrarán sobre el yunque  
con los ojillos cerrados.   

Huye luna, luna, luna, 
que ya siento sus caballos. 
Niño, déjame, no pises  
mi blancor almidonado.   

El jinete se acercaba  
tocando el tambor del llano.  
Dentro de la fragua el niño, 
tiene los ojos cerrados.  

Por el olivar venían, 
bronce y sueño, los gitanos. 
Las cabezas levantadas  
y los ojos entornados.    

Cómo canta la zumaya, 
¡ay, cómo canta en el árbol! 
Por el cielo va la luna  
con un niño de la mano.  

Dentro de la fragua lloran, 
dando gritos, los gitanos.
El aire la vela, vela.
El aire la está velando.

Romance of the moon and the child


Darío Goldgel Carballo

The moon has flown down to the forge, 
a dress of blossoms, white, she wears,
the child at her, he stares, he looks, 
he looks still, and still he stares.

Her arms extend and slide and move, 
arouse and stir the shaken air.
Lubricious, she is showing now,
resolved and stout, her hard tin breasts.

Take flight, oh moon, oh moon, oh moon!
If gypsies were to find you there
they would, no doubt, craft from your heart 
white rings and beads to fit their wares!

Be quiet, child, and let me dance, 
as when the gypsies come upstairs 
the anvil shall then be the bed
where you will lie, eyes closed, and bare!

Take flight, oh moon, oh moon, oh moon!
I hear the rumble of their mares!
Away, dim child! Look out, don’t step! 
My starchy whiteness you may taint!

The rider strode, and swift he approached, 
the drumbeat sowed across the plains.
Inside the forge, the anvil is
bed for the child, eyes closed, and bare.

And through the field of olive trees 
within a dream, bronze gypsies came.
Their heads well raised, they stand staunch, 
their eyes half-closed and unaware.

Oh, hear the way the nightjar sings! 
Oh, hear its song, its grieved fanfare! 
Up in the sky, the moon ascends 
next to a child, his hand with hers.

Inside the forge, the gypsies moan, 
their voices cast cries of despair.
A vigil keeps, the air with gloom, 
a gloomy vigil keeps the air.