"Moon, moon, moon, run!
calling, calling from its tree!
The moon is climbing through the sky
If the gypsies come,
the moon moves her amrs,
all the gypsies, shouting, crying.
to make white necklaces and rings."
come the gypsies, dream and bronze,
their heads held high,
drumming on the plain.
The boy is staring hard.
Closer comes the the horseman,
The air is veiwing all, views all.
They are crying inthe forge,
dont step on me, all starched and white!"
her breasts of hard tin.
their hooded eyes.
"Let me dance, my little one.
Oh, how the night owl calls,
his eyes are closed.
I can feelheir horses come."
When the gypsies come,
The little boy stares at her, stares.
"Moon, moon, moon, run!
The boy is in the forge;
they will use your heart
translated by Will Kirkland
"Let me be, my little one,
Federico García Lorca
The moon came into the forge
theyll find you on the anvil
in her bustle of flowering nard.
and shows lubricious and pure,
with the child by the hand.
Through the olive grove
In the shaken air
with your lively eyesclosed tight.
Ballad of the Moon
The air is at the viewing.
