by Federico García Lorca （Translated by William Logan）

    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 waist

    she 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 her

    and she cannot see them.

    Green， how I want you green.

    Big hoarfrost stars

    come with the fish of shadow

    that opens the road of dawn.

    The fig¹ tree rubs its wind

    with the sandpaper of its branches，

    and the forest， cunning cat，

    bristles² its brittle³ fibers⁴.

    But who will come？ And from where？

    She is still on her balcony

    green flesh， her hair green，

    dreaming in the bitter sea.

    My friend， I want to trade

    my horse for her house，

    my saddle for her mirror，

    my knife for her blanket.

    My friend， I come bleeding

    from 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 have

    from my chest up to my throat？

    Your white shirt has grown

    thirsy dark brown roses.

    Your blood oozes⁵ 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 moon

    through which the water rumbles⁶.

    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 tambourines⁷

    struck at the dawn light.

    Green， how I want you green，

    green wind， green branches.

    The two friends climbed up.

    The stiff wind left

    in their mouths， a strange taste

    of bile， of mint， and of basil

    My 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 cistern⁸

    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 intimate

    like a little plaza⁹.

    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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