BALLAD OF THE MOON, MOON

The moon came to the smithy
with her bustle of white rose.
The child looks at her,
and looks, and looks.
In the agitated air
the moon moves her arm
and shows, pure, shameless,
her breasts of hard tin.
'Run away, moon, moon, moon.
If the gypsies come,
they'll twist your heart to necklaces
and rings of white stone.'
'Child, let me dance.
When the gypsies come,
they'll find you, little eyes closed,
on the anvil of iron.'
'Run away, moon, moon, moon,
for now I hear their horses.'
'Leave me, child, do not tread
upon my starchy whiteness.'

The horseman was approaching
drumming on the plain.
Inside the forge the child
closed his eyes again.

Through the olive grove the gypsies came,
dream and bronze.
Their heads held high
and their eyes half-closed.

Ah, how the owl sings!
how it sings in the tree!
Holding a child's hand
the moon walks through the sky.

Inside the forge the gypsies
shout and weep.
The wind is watching over it,
watching over it.