Romance Sonambulo

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    <strong>Romanbulo</strong>

    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<s></s> 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.

    L<dfn>９９lｉb.</dfn>eaving 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!

    Ho<samp></samp>w 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 &qbbr>99ｌｉb?</abbr>uot;Guardias Civiles&quot;

    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.

    <strong>Federico García Lorca</strong>?９９lib?

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