The Old Lizard
by Federico García Lorca
trans. by G. McClure
July 26, 1920
(Vega de Zujaira)
On the sun-parched path
I’ve seen a fine lizard
(drop of a crocodile)
meditating.
In the green frock
of a devil’s priest,
his poise precise
and collar creased,
his semblance is the sorrow
of an old professor.
The marcid eyes
of the failed artist,
how they stare at the afternoon,
its lost heart!
”Is this your turn
through twilight, amigo?”
Use a cane, you are already
worn out, Don Lagarto,
and the village rascals
will give you a fright.
What will you find on the path,
short-sighted sage,
if the vacillating spirits
of the August afternoon
have splintered the horizon?
Are you looking for blue alms
from a dying sky?
A penny from a star?
Or perhaps
you’re studying a book
by Lamartine, or you, sir, love
the plateresque whistling
of the birds?
(You look at the western sun
and your eyes silver,
oh, dragon to the frogs!,
with a human sheen.
The oarless longboats
of ideas cross
the dark water
of your burned iris.)
Maybe you’ve come looking
for a lovely lizardess,
green like the wheat
of May,
like the long locks
of sleeping fountains,
who spurned you, then
left your country?
Oh, dulcet idyl dashed
on the cool rushes!
But life! Damn!
You’ve found me sympathetic.
The argument, “I set myself against
the serpent,” triumphs
in yours, a Christian archbishop’s
great double chin.
The sun has now dissolved
in the mountain’s cup
and flocks
cloud the road.
It’s time to leave,
leave the narrow path
and stop
meditating,
which will have its place,
the staring at the stars,
when they are eating you slowly,
the worms.
Go back to your home
under the cricket village!
¡Buenas noches, amigo,
Don Lagarto!
Now the field is free of people,
the mountains faded,
and the road empty.
Only, now and again,
a cuckoo sings in the shade
of the poplars.
October 23, 2010