Oh, how the night owl calls,
"Let me be, my little one,
her breasts of hard tin.
The air is veiwing all, views all.
to make white necklaces and rings."
Through the olive grove
The boy i藏书网s in the forge;
Closer comes the the horseman,
I can feelheir horses come."
with your lively eyes closed tight.
come the gypsies, dream and bronze,
"Moon, moon, moon, run!
If t九-九-藏-书-网he gypsies come,
dont step on me, all starched and white!"
Ballad of the Moon
The little boy stares at her, stares.
they will use your heart
calling, calling from i九_九_藏_书_网ts tree!
with the child by the hand.
When the gypsies come,
"Moon, moon, moon, run!
theyll find you on the anvil
in her bustle of flowering nard.
The boy is staring hard.
Federico García Lorca九九藏书
The moon is climbing through the sky
all the gypsies, shouting, crying.
and shows lubricious and pure,
translated by Will Kirkland
their heads held high,
They are crying in 九-九-藏-书-网
the forge,
drumming on the plain.
In the shaken air
The moon came into the forge
the moon moves her amrs,
"Let me dance, my little one.
The air is at the viewing.
his eyes are closed.
their hooded eyes.