Preciosa and the Wind F. G. Lorca - translation

                To Damaso Alonso.

On a  tambourine, parchment moon,
Preciosa merrily jingles
treading a watery trail.
Crystals and laurels mingle.
Shadowy, starless silence,
hearing her joyful song,
is falling into the ocean
where star fish belong.
On the peak of the mountain
carabineers, naive
and dozy, are guarding towers
where Englishmen live.
And the gypsies of water,
waves, are joking with time,
making fun of sea snails,
forcing pines to chime.

*

On a tambourine, parchment moon,
Preciosa merrily jingles.
Seeing her, sleepless wind
is lifting shivering shingles.
A giant cathedral, naked,
full of celestial tunes,
looks up as the wind is playing
sweet flutes and brazen bassoons.   

“Hey, dolly, let off your dress
and let me, experienced lover,
open the rose of your body 
and see what I can discover.”

Preciosa drops her tambourine
and runs as fast as she can
chased by the men-like wind,
afraid of the wind-like men.

The ocean raises its roar.
An old olive tree turns pale
when shadows begin to sing
about the coming gale.

Preciosa, run fast, Preciosa!
The green wind may catch you, gypsy.
Preciosa, run fast, Preciosa,
away from the raving deep sea,
away from the lowly Satyr,
rugged, bad mouthed, tipsy.

*
The girl overwhelmed with fear
runs to the light that shines
from the tower of English consul,
up and beyond the pines.

Disturbed by her loud screaming
three carabineers appear
in black capes and bandoliers,
to see who is getting near.

Englishmen offer the gypsy
warm milk and a glass of gin,
a glass that frightened Preciosa
couldn’t lift to her chin.

And while she tells her story
amid disbelief and smiles
the furious wind above them
gnaws upon the green roof tiles.