AN UNCOMMON THOUGHT

"The real trick to life is not to be in the know, but to be in the mystery."
-Fred Alan Wolf

05 June 2018

Happy birthday, Lorca.


Federico García Lorca was born on this day in 1898.

SOMNAMBULIST BALLAD

Green green I want you green:
Green the wind, green the branches.
The ship upon the sea
and the horse in the mountain.
With the shadow at her waist
She dreams in her veranda,
green the flesh, green the hair,
and her eyes of cold silver.
Under the gypsy moon
They are watching her
and she cannot see them.
Green green I want you green:
Great stars of frost
come with shadows of fish
that open the way of the dawn.
The figtree caresses the wind
with its rasping branches,
and the grass, a thieving cat,
bristles at its sour chords.
But who will come? And from where?
She lingers in her veranda
green the flesh, green the hair,
dreaming the bitter sea.

Friend, I want to exchange
my horse for your house,
my saddle for your mirror
my knife for your blanket.
Friend, I come bloody
from the gates of Cabra."
"If I could, my son,
I'd do this trade.
But I am no longer myself,
nor is my house my house."
"Friend, I want to die
decently, in my own bed.
bravely, if it's possible,
in the soft sheets of Holland.
Can't you see the wound I have
from my chest to my throat?"
"You bear three hundred
Dark roses on your white chest
Around your sash, the blood
oozes, smells so powerfully."
"But now I'm not myself,
and my house is not my house.
At least let me go up
to the high veranda
Let me go! Let me me go up
to the green veranda,
where the water echoes
on the balustrades of the moon.

Now the two friends go up
to the high verandas.
Leaving a trail of blood.
Leaving a trail of tears.
Little lights of pane
Shook the tile roof.
A thousand crystal tambourines
wounded the dawn.
Green green I want you green:
green the wind, green the branches.
The two friends went up.
The great wind left
a strange taste of gall,
of mint, of sweet basil.
Friend! Where is she? Tell me.
Where's the girl of bitterness?
How many times
will she wait for you
on this green veranda
with her young face,
and her black hair.
Under the lip of the well
the gypsy rocked.
Green the flesh, green the hair,
and her eyes of cold silver.
She floats on the water
an icicle of the moon.
The night became as secret
As a little plaza.
Drunken civil guards
were beating on the portals.
Green green I want you green.
Green the wind, green the branches.
The ship upon the sea.
And the horse in the mountains.

Federico García Lorca

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