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Romance Sonámbulo Analysis

Author: Poetry of Federico García Lorca Type: Poetry Views: 237

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<strong>English Translation</strong>Green, how I want you green.

Green wind. Green branches.

The ship out on the sea

and the horse on the mountain.With the shade around her waistshe dreams on her balcony,green flesh, her hair green,with eyes of cold silver.Green, how I want you green.Under the gypsy moon,all things are watching herand she cannot see them.Green, how I want you green.Big hoarfrost starscome with the fish of shadowthat opens the road of dawn.The fig tree rubs its windwith the sandpaper of its branches,and the forest, cunning cat,bristles its brittle fibers.But who will come? And from where?She is still on her balconygreen flesh, her hair green,dreaming in the bitter sea.--My friend, I want to trademy horse for her house,my saddle for her mirror,my knife for her blanket.My friend, I come bleedingfrom the gates of Cabra.

--If it were possible, my boy,I'd help you fix that trade.But now I am not I,nor is my house now my house.

--My friend, I want to die

decently in my bed.Of iron, if that's possible,with blankets of fine chambray.Don't you see the wound I havefrom my chest up to my throat?

--Your white shirt has grownthirsy dark brown roses.Your blood oozes and flees a

round the corners of your sash.But now I am not I,nor is my house now my house.

--Let me climb up, at least,up to the high balconies;Let me climb up! Let me,up to the green balconies.Railings of the moonthrough which the water rumbles.Now the two friends climb up,up to the high balconies.

Leaving a trail of blood.Leaving a trail of teardrops.Tin bell vines

were trembling on the roofs.

A thousand crystal tambourinesstruck at the dawn light.Green, how I want you green,green wind, green branches.The two friends climbed up.The stiff wind leftin their mouths, a strange tasteof bile, of mint, and of basilMy friend, where is she--tell me--

where is your bitter girl?

How many times she waited for you!How many times would she wait for you,cool face, black hair,on this green balcony!Over the mouth of the cistern

the gypsy girl was swinging,green flesh, her hair green,with eyes of cold silver.An icicle of moon

holds her up above the water.The night became intimatelike a little plaza.

Drunken "Guardias Civiles"

were pounding on the door.Green, how I want you green.Green wind. Green branches.The ship out on the sea.And the horse on the mountain.


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