Weather Vane
by Federico García Lorca
trans. by G. McClure
July, 1920
(Fuente Vaqueros, Granada)
Wind from the south.
Dusked, passionate,
you move over my flesh,
bringing me seed
of radiant
gazes, steeped
in orange blossoms.
Making the moon blush
and tearful
the rapt poplars, but you’re here
too late!
Already I’ve scrolled up my story’s night
on the shelf!
Without the wind,
listen to me!
Come round, my heart;
come round, my heart.
Air from the north,
the wind’s white bear!
You move over my flesh
trembling with auroras
borealis,
with your cape of ghostly
captains,
laughing grandly
at Dante.
Oh polisher of stars!
But you’re here
too late.
My alma-armoire is moss-mantled
and I’ve lost the key.
Without the wind,
listen to me!
Come round, my heart;
come round, my heart.
Breezes, gnomes, and winds
of nowhere,
little flies on the rose
with petals like pyramids,
trade winds weaned
between the brusque trees,
flutes in a storm,
leave me!
It has rude chains,
my memory,
and the bird is caught
who traces with trills
the afternoon.
The things that have gone will never return,
the whole world knows it,
and in the bright crowd of the winds
it’s hopeless to complain.
Isn’t that so, black poplar, teacher of the breeze?
It’s hopeless to complain.
Without the wind,
listen to me!
Come round, my heart;
come round, my heart.
October 20, 2010