By Fredrico García Lorca

Translated by Narisa Tappitake

The moon came upon the blacksmith shop

Flowing in a starched gown of pine

The boy gazes at her, at her

The boy is gazing at her.

In the billowing evening air

The moon while stretching her arms

Offers, being lustful and pure

Her tin bosom of glittering charms.

-Move on moon, moon, moon

If the galloping gypsies come closer

they’ll dress up in your beautiful white

after using your stolen heart.

-Boy, let me dance

When the galloping gypsies come closer

they’ll stumble on you on the block

small eyes not in dream, not in sleep.

- Move on moon, moon, moon

I already hear the horses.

-Boy leave me alone,

don’t mess my fresh clean whiteness.

The man and his horse come closer

playing a steady beat

inside the smith’s shop lays the boy

small eyes not in dream, not in sleep.

Through the olive grove they came

the gypsies, holding their heads up high

as if in a dream of fanfare

filling their eyes with pride.

How sweetly the owl sings

Oh , how he sings from the tree!

through the night sky the moon brings

the small boy by his hand tenderly.

Inside the smith’s shop they cry

Shouting their sadness, the gypsies.

The air is blowing with her, with her

The air is blowing with her.