Green, how I want you green.
Green wind.  Branches green.
The boat is riding on the sea,
and the horse is on the mountain.
Shadows on her waist,
she dreams outside the open windows.
Green flesh, hair of green,
with eyes of hardened cold silver.
Green, how I want you green.
Below the gypsy moon we look at her,
but she is blind to us.

Green, how I must have you green.
Hallowed stars of crystalline frost
come with hidden fish, to swim
and break open the path of dawn.
The fig tree polishes the wind
with the sandpaper of her shoots,
and the mountain, a thieving cat,
bristles her in her business.
But who comes? And from where…?
She is on the railing with her
green flesh, hair green,
lost dreaming in the deafening sea.

—Friend, I want to trade
my horse for your house,
my mount for your mirror,
my knife for your blanket.
Friend, I am bleeding, have been
since the ports of Cabra.
—If I could, my little man,
this dire matter I would settle.
But I am not myself anymore,
nor is this house mine anymore.
—But I want to die dignified 
in my bed of wrought iron, 
with the comfort of Holland sheets!
Can’t you see the wound here
from the nave unto my chin?
—Your canvas shirt is three hundred
roses brown, and your blood, coppery, 
oozes, stinking around your belt.
But I am not myself anymore,
nor is this house mine anymore.
—Lift me high my friend,
up to the highest balconies,
lift me! lift me up! 
to the green railings. The railings 
of the moon where the water thunders.

And the two friends ascended
towards the high railings.
Staining the walls, a trail of blood.
Staining the walls, a trail of tears.
Tin lanterns trembled tiny on the rooftops,
a thousand of them maiming the dawn.
Green, how I want you green.
Green wind.  Branches green.
Up the friends went,
and a black throated wind 
left in the mouth a strange taste
of most bitter wine, mint and sweet basil.
—Hey! Where? Tell me!
Where is this rancorous girl?
Has she ever waited for you?
How many times will she wait for you,
fresh face, sable hair,
on this green railing?

Looking down 
on the face of the well
the gypsy sways like the fig tree.
Green flesh, hair green,
with eyes of hardened cold silver.
She is a pendant above the water
cradled in the icicles of the moon.
The night hushed like a small town square.
At the door, drunken civil guards began to knock.
Green, how I want you green.
Green wind.  Branches green.
The boat is riding on the sea,
and the horse is on the mountain.

Author: Federico García Lorca
Translator: Manny Grimaldi