Leaving a trail of teardrops.
where is your bitter girl?
struck at the dawn light.
were pounding on the door.
and the forest, cunning cat,
My friend, I come bleeding
How many times would she wait for you,
--Your white shirt has grown
with eyes of cold silver.
with the sandpaper of its branches,
And the horse on the mountain.
with eyes of cold silver.
Green, how I want you green,
Now the two friends climb up,
Big hoarfrost stars
of bile, of mint, and of basil
Railings of the moon
green flesh, her hair green,
like a little plaza.
my knife for her blanket.
in their mouths, a strange taste
dreaming in the bitter sea.
The fig tree rubs its wind
from my chest up to my throat?
Green wind. Green branches.
--My friend, I want to trade
holds her up above the water.
my saddle for her mirror,
Green, how I want you green.
around the corners of your sash.
Green, how I want you green.
Id help you fix that trade.
Of iron, if thats possible,
Green, how I want you green.
The night became intimate
decently in my bed.
thirsty dark brown roses.
But who will come? And from where?
Dont you see the wound I have
through which the water rumbles.
A thousand crystal tambourines
Leaving a trail of blood.
the gypsy girl was swinging,
The two friends climbed up.
The ship out on the sea.
she dreams on her balcony,
The stiff wind left
nor is my house now my house.
Let me climb up! Let me,
up to the green balconies.
How many times she waited for you!
Drunken "Guardias Civiles"
The ship out on the sea
Over the mouth of the cistern
Your blood oozes and flees
that opens the road of dawn.
With the shade around her waist
green wind, green branches.
were trembling on the roofs.
Green wind. Green branches.
Tin bell vines
--My friend, I want to die
But now I am not I,
green flesh, her hair green,
--Let me climb up, at least,
on this green balcony!
My friend, where is she--tell me--
up to the high balconies.
green flesh, her hair green,
from the gates of Cabra.
cool face, black hair,
all things are watching her
45
nor is my house now my house.
and the horse on the mountain.
She is still on her balcony
--If it were possible, my boy,
come with the fish of shadow
But now I am not I,
Under the gypsy moon,
up to the high balconies;
Green, how I want you green.
An icicle of moon
bristles its brittle fibers.
my horse for her house,
.