Romanbulo
Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea
and the horse on the mountain.
With the shade around her waist
she dreams on her baly,
green flesh, her hair green,
with eyes of cold silver.
Green, how I want you green.
Uhe gypsy moon,
all things are watg her
and she ot see them.
Green, how I want you green.
Big hoarfrost stars
e with the fish of shadow
that opens the road of dawn.
The fig tree rubs its wind
with the sandpaper of its branches,
and the forest, ing cat,
bristles its brittle fibers.
But who will e? And from where?
She is still on her baly
green flesh, her hair green,
dreaming iter sea.
--My friend, I want to trade
my horse for her house,
my saddle for her mirror,
my knife for her bla.
My friend, I e bleeding
from the gates of Cabra.
--If it were possible, my boy,
Id help you fix that trade.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.
--My friend, I want to die
detly in my bed.
Of iron, if thats possible,
with blas of fine chambray.
Dont you see the wound I have
from my chest up to my throat?
--Your white shirt has grown
thirsty dark brown roses.
Your blood oozes and flees
around the ers of your sash.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.
--Let me climb up, at least,
up to the high balies;
Let me climb up! Let me,
up to the green balies.
45
Railings of the moon
through which the water rumbles.
Now the two friends climb up,
up to the high balies.
Leaving a trail of blood.
Leaving a trail of teardrops.
Tin bell vines
were trembling on the roofs.
A thousand crystal tambourines
struck at the dawn light.
Green, how I want you green,
green wind, green branches.
The two friends climbed up.
The stiff wi
in their mouths, a straaste
of bile, of mint, and of basil
My friend, where is she--tell me--
where is your bitter girl?
How many times she waited for you!
How many times would she wait for you,
cool face, black hair,
on this green baly!
Over the mouth of the cistern
the gypsy girl was swinging,
green flesh, her hair green,
with eyes of cold silver.
An icioon
holds her up above the water.
The night became intimate
like a little plaza.
Drunken "Guardias Civiles"
were pounding on the door.
Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea.
And the horse on the mountain.
Federico García Lorca