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 For Laurita, friend of my sister

The Moon is dying, dying:
but will be born again in the spring.

When on the brow of the poplars
is curled the wind from the south.

When our hearts have given
their harvest of sighing.

When the rooftops are wearing
their little sombreros of weeds.

The moon is dying, dying:
but will be reborn in the spring.


 For Isabelita, my sister

The evening is chanting
a berceuse to the oranges.

My little sister’s chanting:
the Earth is an orange.

The moon weeping cries:
I want to be an orange.

You cannot be, my child,
even if you were reddened.
Not even if you turned lemon.
What a shame that is!


Federico García Lorca
Translation by A. S. Kline

Note: A berceuse is a French cradle-song.

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