Ballad of the Moon, the Moon

To Conchita Garda Lorca

The moon came to the forge
wearing her bustle of bulbs.
The boy’s looking at her,
looking and looking.
In the disturbed air
the moon moves her arms,
and lewd and pure, lifts
her hard metallic breasts.
Run, moon, moon, moon.
If the gypsies come,
they’ll make necklaces, white rings
out of your heart.
Child, let me dance.
If the gypsies come
they’ll find you on the anvil,
your bright eyes closed.
Run, moon, moon, moon,
I hear their horses now.
Leave me, child, don’t trample
my starched whiteness.

The horseman came nearer
drumming across the plain.
Inside the forge the child’s
eyes are tight shut.
Through the olive-grove they came,
gypsies, bronze and sleep.
Heads high,
their eyes behind their lids.

How the barn-owl sings,
how it sings in the tree!
The moon goes through the sky
holding a child’s hand.

Inside the forge the shouting
gypsies weep.
The air maintains its watch,
watching, watching.