The moon comes to the forge,
in her creamy-white petticoat.
The child stares, stares.
The child is staring at her.
In the breeze, stirred,
the moon stirs her arms
shows, pure, voluptuous,
her breasts of hard tin.
- ‘Away, luna, luna, luna.
If the gypsies come here,
they’ll take your heart for
necklaces and white rings.’
- ‘Child, let me dance now.
When the gypsies come here,
they’ll find you on the anvil,
with your little eyes closed.’
- ‘Away, luna, luna, luna,
because I hear their horses.’
- ‘Child, go, but do not tread
on my starched whiteness.’
The riders are coming nearer
beating on the plain, drumming.
Inside the forge, the child
has both his eyes closed.
Through the olive trees they come,
bronze, and dream, the gypsies,
their heads held upright,
their eyes half-open.
How the owl is calling.
Ay, it calls in the branches!
Through the sky goes the moon,
gripping a child’s fingers.
In the forge the gypsies
are shouting and weeping.
The breeze guards, guards.
The breeze guards it.
-- Garcia Lorca
