St. Michael Granada F. G. Lorca translation

         To Diego Buigas de Dalmau.


On the mountain, mountain, mountain,
you can see them in early hours,
their mules and shadows of mules
laden with sunflowers.

Their cool and shady eyes
are dimmed by the mighty night.
With the bend of the breeze
appears the salty light.

And the sky of white mules
shuts the mirroring eyes
giving the quiet light
its heart, its most valued prize.
And the water turns colder,
an untouchable, wild fountain,
the water, clear, pristine,
on the mountain, mountain, mountain.


*

St. Michael, stands covered in lace,
in the alcove narrow and white,
showing his graceful thighs
that glow in the lantern light.
Domesticated Archangel,
in one of a dozen gests
betrays his pretended anger 
over the feathers and nests. 
And in the stained glass
he sings three thousand nights,
fragrant with wild flowers,
blooming yellows and whites.

*

The sea and the beach are chanting
a poem of balconies, astral.
The moon is playing in reeds
and trying voices, orchestral.
Beautiful girls are coming,
eating sunflower seeds,
wearing dark copper planets
as their earrings and beads.
Gentlemen tall and hansom
come with sad looking women
who’ve past their better times
of nightingales and seamen.
And, preaching to them, appears
a weary spiritual healer,
blind, saffron and poor
Bishop of old Manila.

         *

St Michael, a motionless figure,
in the alcove narrow and white,
his stony coat encrusted
with spangles sharp and bright.

St Michael, the king of spheres,
uneven numbers and crowds,
in the arabesque splendor
of mirrors and piercing shouts.