The Dispute F. G. Lorca - translation

           To Rafael Mendez.
 
On the bank of a steep ravine
Albacetean knives are raving,
letting out hot blood,
wetting the blades’ engraving.
Pressing against the green,
sun rays are chasing the fighters,
highlighting shiny horses
and soft silhouettes of riders.   
Sitting in olive trees
two women begin to weep.
The bull of the bitter strife
is driven to run and reap.
Black angels cover the rocks
with fabrics of melted snow.
Their wings, Albacetean blades,
prepare a mortal blow.
Juan Antonio from Montilla
is cut down and dead.
Irises on his body,
a pomegranate on his head.
No horse, he will ride forever
a burning cross instead. 

            *

A judge comes through olive groves
with a group of Civil Guard.
Spilled blood is crying and singing
a mute song of a serpent’s heart.
“Oh Civil Guardsmen, Sirs,
it was the usual performance,
five Carthaginians dead
and four of the stubborn Romans.”

            *

The afternoon, chaotic,
filled with mad figs and heated
sounds is falling on riders
wounded and defeated.
And the black angels are flying
above somebody who departs, 
angels without mercy,
angels with olive hearts.