The Faithless Wife F. G. Lorca - translation

To Lydia Cabrera
and her black girl.


I went with her to the river
believing she was a maiden,
but she was a smart deceiver.

It was on the night of Santiago.
As if to put me at ease,
conspiring lanterns went out
and glow-worms lit up the trees.
In the dark, remote corner
I touched her breasts, sleeping twins,
and they suddenly opened
like clusters of hyacinth.
The starch of her crispy skirts,
envy of jealous wives,
sounded like the silk
turn by ten rushing knives.
Fast in the moonless night
grew shadows and trees caught fever.
The dogs of the red horizon
barked far away from the river.

          *

Behind the sharp blackberries
that prickled fast-cooling air
I pressed into the sand
her beautiful braided hair.
I tore my silken tie,
the skin of her dress was shad,
I lost my belt with a handgun,
she lost her fine corset.
Her jasmine body was glowing.
Nor pearls under gentle light,
nor moonlight on glass and silver
shine so warm and bright.
Her thighs slipped away escaping -
trembling fish of desire,
half-full of freezing shadows,
half-full of golden fire.
That night, that long night I rode
the path of ivory lilies
mounted on a nacre,
temperamental filly.
The dire words that she whispered
a true man would not repeat,
the cloak of understanding
requires being discreet.
Smeared with sand and kisses
I took her away from there
leaving the knives of lilies
battle with livid air.
And I behaved like I should have.
A gypsy from mother’s milk,
I gave her a large basket
of finest rose-coloured silk.
I cut the wings of my love
to the faithless deceiver,
for she was already married
when we went to the river.