Luna

Translations of Romance de la Luna, Luna, Luna
by Federico García Lorca (1898 - 1936)


 
Original Spanish 		Translated by
Helen Gunn,
CSU San Marcos 		Translated by
Dr. David K. Loughran,
John Hopkins University 		Automatic translation by
http://www.systransoft.com/
La luna vino a la fragua
con su polisón de nardos.
El niño la mira, mira.
El niño la está mirando.

En el aire conmovido
mueve la luna sus brazos
y enseña, lúbrica y pura,
sus senos de duro estaño.

Huye luna, luna, luna.
Si vinieran los gitanos,
harían con tu corazón
collares y anillos blancos.

Niño, déjame que baile.
Cuando vengan los gitanos,
te encontrarán sobre el yunque
con los ojillos cerrados.

Huye luna, luna, luna,
que ya siento sus caballos.

Niño, déjame, no pises
mi blancor almidonado.

El jinete se acercaba tocando el tambor del llano. Dentro de la fragua el niño, tiene los ojos cerrados.

Por el olivar ven'an, bronce y sueño, los gitanos. Las cabezas levantadas y los ojos entornados.

Cómo canta la zumaya,
¡ay, cómo canta en el árbol!
Por el cielo va la luna
con un niño de la mano.

Dentro de la fragua lloran,
dando gritos, los gitanos.
El aire la vela, vela.
El aire la está velando.

The moon came to the forge
   with her skirt of white, fragrant flowers.
   The young boy watches her, watches.
   The boy is watching her.

In the electrified air
   the moon moves her arms
   and points out, lecherous and pure,
   her breasts of hard tin.

Flee, moon, moon, moon.
   If the gypsies were to come,
   they would make with your heart
   white necklaces and rings.

Young boy, leave me to dance.
   When they come, the gypsies
   will find you upon the anvil
   with closed eyes.

Flee, moon, moon, moon.
   Already I sit astride horses.
   Young boy, leave me, don’t step on
   my starched whiteness.

The horse rider approaches
   beating the drum of the plain.
   Within the forge the young man
   has closed eyes.

Through the olive grove they come,
   the gypsies –  bronze and dreaming,
   heads lifted
   and eyes half closed.

Hark, hear the night bird –
   how it sings in the tree.
   Across the sky moves the moon,
   holding the young boy by the hand.

Within the forge the gypsies cry,
   are crying out.
   The air watches over her, watches.
   The air is watching over her.

 The moon came to the forge
wearing her bustle of nards.
The child stares and stares at her;
the child keeps staring on.
In the agitated air the moon moves her arms revealing lubricious and pure
her breasts, tin and hard.
Run away, moon, moon, moon!
If the gypsies find where we are
white necklaces and rings
they’ll make of your heart.
Little boy, let me dance,
for when the gypsies come,
on the anvil they’ll find you
with your little eyes shut.
Run away, moon, moon, moon;
already I hear a horse.
Little boy, let me be, don’t step
on my whiteness of starch.

Beating the drum of the plains
the horseman approached,
and inside the forge
the child’s eyes are closed

Through the olive grove they came, gypsies half bronze and half dream,
their heads lifted up high,
eyes closed as in sleep.

How the owl is singing,
from its tree, how it hoots!
With a child by the hand
through the sky goes the moon.

Inside the forge
the gypsies cry and scream.
The air keeps on in vigil.
The air its vigil keeps

 The moon came to the forge
with his polisón of nardos.
The boy the sight, watches.
The boy is watching it.

In the affected air
he moves the moon his arms
and he teaches, lascivious and pure,
its sines of duro tin.

It flees moon, moon, moon.
If the gypsys came,
they would do with your heart
white necklaces and ring.

Boy, leaves me that he dances.
When the gypsys come,
they will find you on the anvil
with the closed ojillos.

He flees moon, moon, moon,
that I already feel its horses.

Boy, leaves me, you are not above
my starchy whiteness.

The rider approached touching the drum of the level one. Within the forge the boy, has the closed eyes.

By the olive grove they came, bronze and dream, the gypsys. The raised heads and the half-closed eyes.

How it sings zumaya,
ay, how it sings in the tree!
By the sky the moon goes
with a boy of the hand.

Within the forge they cry,
giving shouts, the gypsys.
The air the candle, guards.
The air is guarding it