ترانهی ماه، ماه برای کونجیتا گارسیالورکا ماه به آهنگر خانه میآید با پاچین ِ سنبلالطیباش.بچه در او خیره ماندهنگاهش میکند، نگاهش میکند.در نسیمی که میوزد،ماه دستهایش را حرکت میدهدو پستانهای سفید ِ سفت ِ فلزیش را هوس انگیز و پاک، عریان میکند.ــ هیّ! برو! ماه، ماه، ماه!کولیها اگر سر رسند از دلات انگشتر و سینهریز میسازند.ــ بچه، بگذار برقصم.تا سوارها بیایند تو بر سندان خفتهای،چشمهای کوچکت را بستهای.ــ هیّ! برو! ماه، ماه، ماه! صدای پای اسب میآید.ــ راحتم بگذار.سفیدی ِ آهاریام را مچاله میکنی.طبل ِ جلگه را کوبانسوار، نزدیک میشود.و در آهنگرخانهی خاموش، بچه چشمهای کوچکش را بسته.کولیان ــ مفرغ و رویا ــاز جانب زیتون زارها پیش میآیندبر گردهی اسبهای خویش،گردنها بلند برافراخته و نگاهها همه خواب آلود.چه خوش میخواند از فراز درختش،چه خوش میخواند شبگیر!و بر آسمان، ماه میگذرد;ماه، همراه کودکی دستش در دست.در آهنگرخانه، گرد بر گرد ِ سندان کولیان به نومیدی گریانند.و نسیم که بیدار است، هشیار است.و نسی م که به هوشیاری بیدار است.Federico García LorcaLament for Ignacio Sanchez Mejias1. Cogida and death At five in the afternoon. It was exactly five in the afternoon. A boy brought the white sheet at five in the afternoon. A frail of lime ready prepared at five in the afternoon. The rest was death, and death alone. The wind carried away the cottonwool at five in the afternoon. And the oxide scattered crystal and nickel at five in the afternoon. Now the dove and the leopard wrestle at five in the afternoon. And a thigh with a desolated horn at five in the afternoon. The bass-string struck up at five in the afternoon. Arsenic bells and smoke at five in the afternoon. Groups of silence in the corners at five in the afternoon. And the bull alone with a high heart! At five in the afternoon. When the sweat of snow was coming at five in the afternoon, when the bull ring was covered with iodine at five in the afternoon. Death laid eggs in the wound at five in the afternoon. At five in the afternoon. At five o'clock in the afternoon. A coffin on wheels is his bed at five in the afternoon. Bones and flutes resound in his ears at five in the afternoon. Now the bull was bellowing through his forehead at five in the afternoon. The room was iridiscent with agony at five in the afternoon. In the distance the gangrene now comes at five in the afternoon. Horn of the lily through green groins at five in the afternoon. The wounds were burning like suns at five in the afternoon. At five in the afternoon. Ah, that fatal five in the afternoon! It was five by all the clocks! It was five in the shade of the afternoon! 2. The Spilled Blood I will not see it! Tell the moon to come, for I do not want to see the blood of Ignacio on the sand. I will not see it! The moon wide open. Horse of still clouds, and the grey bull ring of dreams with willows in the barreras. I will not see it! Let my memory kindle! Warm the jasmines of such minute whiteness! I will not see it! The cow of the ancient world passed har sad tongue over a snout of blood spilled on the sand, and the bulls of Guisando, partly death and partly stone, bellowed like two centuries sated with threading the earth. No. I will not see it! Ignacio goes up the tiers with all his death on his shoulders. He sought for the dawn but the dawn was no more. He seeks for his confident profile and the dream bewilders him He sought for his beautiful body and encountered his opened blood Do not ask me to see it! I do not want to hear it spurt each time with less strength: that spurt that illuminates the tiers of seats, and spills over the cordury and the leather of a thirsty multiude. Who shouts that I should come near! Do not ask me to see it! His eyes did not close when he saw the horns near, but the terrible mothers lifted their heads. And across the ranches, an air of secret voices rose, shouting to celestial bulls, herdsmen of pale mist. There was no prince in Sevilla who could compare to him, nor sword like his sword nor heart so true. Like a river of lions was his marvellous strength, and like a marble toroso his firm drawn moderation. The air of Andalusian Rome gilded his head where his smile was a spikenard of wit and intelligence. What a great torero in the ring! What a good peasant in the sierra! How gentle with the sheaves! How hard with the spurs! How tender with the dew! How dazzling the fiesta! How tremendous with the final banderillas of darkness! But now he sleeps without end. Now the moss and the grass open with sure fingers the flower of his skull. And now his blood comes out singing; singing along marshes and meadows, sliden on frozen horns, faltering soulles in the mist stoumbling over a thousand hoofs like a long, dark, sad tongue, to form a pool of agony close to the starry Guadalquivir. Oh, white wall of Spain! Oh, black bull of sorrow! Oh, hard blood of Ignacio! Oh, nightingale of his veins! No. I will not see it! No chalice can contain it, no swallows can drink it, no frost of light can cool it, nor song nor deluge og white lilies, no glass can cover mit with silver. No. I will not see it! 3. The Laid Out Body Stone is a forehead where dreames grieve without curving waters and frozen cypresses. Stone is a shoulder on which to bear Time with trees formed of tears and ribbons and planets. I have seen grey showers move towards the waves raising their tender riddle arms, to avoid being caught by lying stone which loosens their limbs without soaking their blood. For stone gathers seed and clouds, skeleton larks and wolves of penumbra: but yields not sounds nor crystals nor fire, only bull rings and bull rings and more bull rings without walls. Now, Ignacio the well born lies on the stone. All is finished. What is happening! Contemplate his face: death has covered him with pale sulphur and has place on him the head of dark minotaur. All is finished. The rain penetrates his mouth. The air, as if mad, leaves his sunken chest, and Love, soaked through with tears of snow, warms itself on the peak of the herd. What is they saying? A stenching silence settles down. We are here with a body laid out which fades away, with a pure shape which had nightingales and we see it being filled with depthless holes. Who creases the shroud? What he says is not true! Nobody sings here, nobody weeps in the corner, nobody pricks the spurs, nor terrifies the serpent. Here I want nothing else but the round eyes to see his body without a chance of rest. Here I want to see those men of hard voice. Those that break horses and dominate rivers; those men of sonorous skeleton who sing with a mouth full of sun and flint. Here I want to see them. Before the stone. Before this body with broken reins. I want to know from them the way out for this captain stripped down by death. I want them to show me a lament like a river wich will have sweet mists and deep shores, to take the body of Ignacio where it looses itself without hearing the double planting of the bulls. Loses itself in the round bull ring of the moon which feigns in its youth a sad quiet bull, loses itself in the night without song of fishes and in the white thicket of frozen smoke. I don't want to cover his face with handkerchiefs that he may get used to the death he carries. Go, Ignacio, feel not the hot bellowing Sleep, fly, rest: even the sea dies! 4. Absent Soul The bull does not know you, nor the fig tree, nor the horses, nor the ants in your own house. The child and the afternoon do not know you because you have dead forever. The shoulder of the stone does not know you nor the black silk, where you are shuttered. Your silent memory does not know you because you have died forever The autumn will come with small white snails, misty grapes and clustered hills, but no one will look into your eyes because you have died forever. Because you have died for ever, like all the dead of the earth, like all the dead who are forgotten in a heap of lifeless dogs. Nobady knows you. No. But I sing of you. For posterity I sing of your profile and grace. Of the signal maturity of your understanding. Of your appetite for death and the taste of its mouth. Of the sadness of your once valiant gaiety. It will be a long time, if ever, before there is born an Andalusian so true, so rich in adventure. I sing of his elegance with words that groan, and I remember a sad breeze through the olive trees.