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liar's moon | by soleá
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liar's moon

Ballad of the Moon, Moon


The moon came to the forge

wearing a bustle of nards.

The boy is looking at her.

The boy is looking hard.

In the troubled air,

the wind moves her arms,

showing lewd and pure,

her hard, tin breasts.

'Run, moon, moon, moon.

If the gypsies came,

they would make of your heart

necklaces and white rings.'

'Child, let me dance.

When the gypsies come,

they will find you on the anvil

with your little eyes shut tight.'

'Run, moon moon moon.

I can hear their horses.

Child, let me be, don't walk

on my starchy white.'


The rider was drawing closer

playing the drum of the plain.

In the forge the child

has his eyes shut tight.

Bronze and dream, the gypsies

cross the olive grove.

Their heads held high,

their eyes half open.


Ay how the nightjar sings!

How it sings in the tree!

The moon goes through the sky

with a child in her hand.


In the forge the gypsies

wept and cried aloud.

The air is watching, watching.

The air watched all night long.


Federico García Lorca


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Taken on March 9, 2014