Romance Sonambulo

　　by Federico García Lorca （Translated by William Logan）

　　 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 balcony，

　　 green flesh， her hair green，

　　 with eyes of cold silver.

　　 Green， how I want you green.

　　 Under the gypsy moon，

　　 all things are watching her

　　 and she cannot see them.

　　 Green， how I want you green.

　　 Big hoarfrost stars

　　 come 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， cunning cat，

　　 bristles its brittle fibers.

　　 But who will come？ And from where？

　　 She is still on her balcony

　　 green flesh， her hair green，

　　 dreaming in the bitter sea.

　　 My friend， I want to trade

　　 my horse for her house，

　　 my saddle for her mirror，

　　 my knife for her blanket.

　　 My friend， I come bleeding

　　 from the gates of Cabra.

　　 If it were possible， my boy，

　　 I'd help you fix that trade.

　　 But now I am not I，

　　 nor is my house now my house.

　　 My friend， I want to die

　　 decently in my bed.

　　 Of iron， if that's possible，

　　 with blankets of fine chambray.

　　 Don't you see the wound I have

　　 from my chest up to my throat？

　　 Your white shirt has grown

　　 thirsy dark brown roses.

　　 Your blood oozes and flees a

　　 round the corners 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 balconies；

　　 Let me climb up！ Let me，

　　 up to the green balconies.

　　 Railings of the moon

　　 through which the water rumbles.

　　 Now the two friends climb up，

　　 up to the high balconies.

　　 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 wind left

　　 in their mouths， a strange taste

　　 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 balcony！

　　 Over the mouth of the cistern

　　 the gypsy girl was swinging，

　　 green flesh， her hair green，

　　 with eyes of cold silver.

　　 An icicle of moon

　　 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.