Ballad of the Moon, Moon F. G. Lorca - translation

                A Conchita Garcia Lorca.

The moon steps into the forge
with the fragrance of nard.
The boy looks at her torch,
the child is looking hard.
Through the restless air
the moon is stretching her arm,
the moon is showing her bare
tin breasts, shiny and plum.
“Run away, moon, moon!
The gypsies are coming soon. 
They will stamp silvery things
from your heart, a necklace and rings.”
“Oh, let me dance, my boy,
when they come and see me, with envy,
they will not get much joy,
they will find you on the anvil.”
“Run away, moon, moon!
Their horses are near.”
“When you are going to swoon,
do not crush my white dress in fear.”

The rushing horsemen approach
drumming the plain hard.
The boy is inside the forge,
his little eyes are shut.

They come from the grove, they fly,
Gypsies dreamy, bronze-brown,
holding the heads high,
keeping the eyes down.

Oh, how the owl cries, 
oh, how it sings, wild!
Into the dark-blue skies
the moon is carrying the child.

In the forge they weep,
Gypsies burst into tears,
while the wind would keep
watching, the wind that cares.