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