Green, I love you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The boat on the sea
and the horse on the mountain.
With the shadow at her waist,
she dreams on her railing,
green flesh, green hair,
with eyes of cold silver.
Green, I love you green.
Under the gypsy moon,
things are looking at her
and she can't look at them.
Green, how I love you, green.
Great stars of frost
come with the shadow fish
that opens the path of dawn.
The fig tree rubs its wind
with the sandpaper of its branches,
and the mountain, a staghorn cat,
bristles its sour pitas.
But who will come? And from where?...
She remains on her railing,
green flesh, green hair,
dreaming in the bitter sea.
—Compadre, I want to exchange
my horse for your house,
my saddle for your mirror,
my knife for your blanket.
Compadre, I come bleeding,
from the ports of Cabra.
—If I could, young man,
this deal would be closed.
But I am no longer me,
nor is my house my home.
—Compadre, I want to die
decently in my bed.
Of steel, if possible,
with sheets of Holland.
Don't you see the wound I have
from my chest to my throat?
—Three hundred brown roses
your white shirtband wears.
Your blood oozes and smells
around your sash.
But I am no longer myself,
nor is my house my house.
—Let me climb at least
to the high railings;
—Let me climb! Let me
to the green railings,
Railings of the moon
where the water rumbles.
*
The two compadres are now climbing
toward the high railings.
Leaving a trail of blood.
Leaving a trail of tears.
The roofs trembled
tin lanterns.
A thousand glass tambourines
wound the dawn.
*
Green, how I love you green,
green wind, green branches.
The two compadres climbed.
The long wind left
in my mouth a strange taste
of bile, mint, and basil.
Compadre! Where is she, tell me,
where is your bitter girl?
How many times she waited for you!
How many times she waited for you
fresh face, black hair,
on this green railing!
*
On the face of the cistern
the gypsy woman swayed.
Green flesh, green hair,
with eyes of cold silver.
An icicle of moonlight
holds her over the water.
The night became intimate
like a small plaza.
Drunken civil guards
knocked on the door.
Green, how green I love you.
Green wind. Green branches.
The boat on the sea.
And the horse on the mountain.
Gypsy Ballads, 1928
