I can almost guarantee that my commute home last night was better than your commute home. It hasn’t gotten cold yet here, but there’s a definite nip in the air, and I walked home past the terraced olive grove under a clear sky and a full moon. During my walk, I kept on thinking about a Federico García Lorca poem that we read—Lorca, of course, poor, doomed, tragic Lorca, one of the first casualties of Franco’s forces when they came to Andalucia. Lorca, whose fascination with gypsies (I know I’m supposed to say the Roma, but it just doesn’t translate well from Spanish, and besides they were called gypsies in the thirties before anyone knew any better) seems both quaint and fierce nowadays. It’s a poem about the full moon, who sees a young gypsy boy asleep outside. It’s actually (like most poetry involving gypsies) quite sad and morbid, but I defy you read the line, “Huye, luna luna luna” without shivering a little with delight. And that’s what I was doing on the way home.: looking at the moon, looking at the moonlight on the mountains and the olive grove, whispering “huye luna luna luna” to myself, and shivering with delight all the way.
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.
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.
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