Scene #16

By the mist clouds of fog that creep over the sun,
By the twinkles of stars that ethereally run,
By the surge of the welkin that roars from the pole,
And the deep hollow murmurs of winter that roll,
I've the moonshine to guide me, the frost to restrain,
As I journey through space, to reach heaven again.

I'm the Spirit of snow, and my compass is wide;
I can fall in the storm, in the wind I can ride;
I am white, I am pure, I am tender, I'm fair,
I was born in the seas, to the seas I repair;
By frost I am harden'd, by wet I'm destroy'd,
And, united with liquid, to Ocean decoy'd.

I have sisters of ether, have brothers of rime,
And my friendships are formed in the northerly clime.
My foes are the elements jarring with strife;
Air lets me pass on to my earth-bosomed wife;
Fire covets and melts me; but water's so kind,
That, when lost to the three, to the fourth I'm resign'd.

I have cousins of icicles, children of sleet;
Some battle with hail, others vanquish in heat;
I'm the Spirit of snow. By the will of the blast,
In the shallows and depths I am drifted at last;
And a glance of the sun, while I brighten in tears,
Dissolves my pretensions to reign in the spheres.

J. R. Prior, "The Spirit of Snow".

Scene #15

How I love to be back here, my favourite blog.

Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea
and the horse on the mountain.
With the shade around her waist
she dreams on her balcony,
green flesh, her hair green,
with eyes of cold silver.
Green, how I want you green.
Under the gypsy moon,
all things are watching her
and she cannot see them.

Green, how I want you green.
Big hoarfrost stars
come with the fish of shadow
that opens the road of dawn.
The fig tree rubs its wind
with the sandpaper of its branches,
and the forest, cunning cat,
bristles its brittle fibers.
But who will come? And from where?
She is still on her balcony
green flesh, her hair green,
dreaming in the bitter sea.

--My friend, I want to trade
my horse for her house,
my saddle for her mirror,
my knife for her blanket.
My friend, I come bleeding
from the gates of Cabra.
--If it were possible, my boy,
I'd help you fix that trade.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.
--My friend, I want to die
decently in my bed.
Of iron, if that's possible,
with blankets of fine chambray.
Don't you see the wound I have
from my chest up to my throat?
--Your white shirt has grown
thirsy dark brown roses.
Your blood oozes and flees a
round the corners of your sash.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.
--Let me climb up, at least,
up to the high balconies;
Let me climb up! Let me,
up to the green balconies.
Railings of the moon
through which the water rumbles.

Now the two friends climb up,
up to the high balconies.
Leaving a trail of blood.
Leaving a trail of teardrops.
Tin bell vines
were trembling on the roofs.
A thousand crystal tambourines
struck at the dawn light.

Green, how I want you green,
green wind, green branches.
The two friends climbed up.
The stiff wind left
in their mouths, a strange taste
of bile, of mint, and of basil
My friend, where is she--tell me--
where is your bitter girl?
How many times she waited for you!
How many times would she wait for you,
cool face, black hair,
on this green balcony!
Over the mouth of the cistern
the gypsy girl was swinging,
green flesh, her hair green,
with eyes of cold silver.
An icicle of moon
holds her up above the water.
The night became intimate
like a little plaza.
Drunken "Guardias Civiles"
were pounding on the door.
Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea.
And the horse on the mountain.

Federico García Lorca, "Romance sonámbulo".