Federico Garcia Lorca – Poems translated in English -by Telenet ed altro di Lorca

 

Federico Garcia Lorca – Poems translated in English – Telenet

The gypsy and the Wind

                    Playing her parchment moon

                    Precosia comes

                    along a watery path of laurels and crystals.

                    The starless silence, fleeing

                    from her rhythmic tambourine,

                    falls where the sea pounds and sings,

                    its night filled with silvery swarms.

                    High atop the mountain peaks

                    the sentinels are sleeping;

                    they guard the white towers

                    of the English consulate.

                    And the gypsies of the water

                    for their pleasure erect

                    little castles of conch shells

                    and twigs of green pine.

                    *

                    Playing her parchment moon

                    Precosia comes.

                    The wind sees her and rises,

                    the wind that never slumbers.

                    Naked Saint Christopher swells,

                    watching the girl, as he plays

                    with tongues of celestial bells

                    on an invisible bagpipe.



                    Child, let me lift your skirt

                    and have a look at you.

                    Open in my ancient fingers

                    the blue rose of your belly.


                    Precosia throws the tambourine

                    and runs away in terror.

                    The virile wind pursues her

                    with his hot sword.


                    The sea darkens and roars,

                    while the olive trees turn pale.

                    The flutes of darkness sound

                    and a muted gong of the snow.


                    Precosia, run, Precosia

                    Or the green wind will catch you!

                    Precosia, run, Precosia!

                    And look how fast he comes!

                    A satyr of low-born stars

                    with his long and glistening tongues.

                    *

                    Precosia, filled with fear,

                    now makes her way to that house

                    beyond the tall green pines

                    where the English consul lives.


                    Alarmed by the anguished cries,

                    three riflemen come running,

                    their black capes tightly drawn,
                    
                    and berets down over their brow.


                    The Englishman gives the gypsy

                    a glass of tepid milk

                    and a shot of Dutch gin

                    which Precosia does not drink.


                    And while she tells them, weeping,

                    of her strange adventure,

                    the wind furiously bites

                    at the slate roof tiles. 
                    
The gypsy-nun

 
                    Silence of lime and myrtle.

                    Mallows in slenders grasses.

                    The nun embroiders wallflowers

                    on a straw-coloured cloth.

                    In the chandelier fly

                    seven prismatic birds.

                    The church grunts in the distance

                    like a bear belly upwards.

                    How she sews! With what grace!

                    On the straw-coloured cloth

                    she wants to embroider

                    the flowers of her fantasy.

                    What sunflowers! What magnolias

                    of sequins and ribbons!

                    What crocuses and moons

                    on the cloth over the altar!

                    Five grapefruits sweeten

                    in the nearby kitchen.

                    The five wounds of Christ

                    cut in Almería.

                    Through the eyes of the nun

                    two horsemen gallop.

                    A last quiet murmur

                    takes off her camisole.

                    And gazing at clouds and hills

                    in the strict distance,

                    her heart of sugar

                    and verbena is breaking.

                    Oh what a high plain

                    with twenty suns above it!

                    What standing rivers 

                    her fantasy sees setting!

                    But she goes on with her flowers,

                    while standing in the breeze,

                    the light plays chess

                    high in the lattice-window. 

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