For The Butterfly's Spell, I wanted an interlude in between the two acts, and used this famous ballad, in my own translation. Here are some other translations that I looked at; most of them I thought almost as incomprehensible in English as the Spanish original. I'm sorry to have lost the attributions.
La luna vino a la fragua con su polisón de nardos. El niño la mira, mira. El niño la está mirando. En el aire conmovido mueve la luna sus brazos y enseña, lúbrica y pura, sus senos de duro estaño. Huye luna, luna, luna. Si vinieran los gitanos, harían con tu corazón collares y anillos blancos. Niño, déjame que baile. Cuando vengan los gitanos, te encontrarán sobre el yunque con los ojillos cerrados. Huye luna, luna, luna, que ya siento sus caballos. Niño, déjame, no pises mi blancor almidonado. El jinete se acercaba tocando el tambor del llano. Dentro de la fragua el niño, tiene los ojos cerrados. Por el olivar ven'an, bronce y sueño, los gitanos. Las cabezas levantadas y los ojos entornados. Cómo canta la zumaya, ¡ay, cómo canta en el árbol! Por el cielo va la luna con un niño de la mano. Dentro de la fragua lloran, dando gritos, los gitanos. El aire la vela, vela. El aire la está velando. The moon came to the forge with her skirt of white, fragrant flowers. The young boy watches her, watches. The boy is watching her. In the electrified air the moon moves her arms and points out, lecherous and pure, her breasts of hard tin. Flee, moon, moon, moon. If the gypsies were to come, they would make with your heart white necklaces and rings. Young boy, leave me to dance. When they come, the gypsies will find you upon the anvil with closed eyes. Flee, moon, moon, moon. Already I sit astride horses. Young boy, leave me, don’t step on my starched whiteness. The horse rider approaches beating the drum of the plain. Within the forge the young man has closed eyes. Through the olive grove they come, the gypsies – bronze and dreaming, heads lifted and eyes half closed. Hark, hear the night bird – how it sings in the tree. Across the sky moves the moon, holding the young boy by the hand. Within the forge the gypsies cry, are crying out. The air watches over her, watches. The air is watching over her. The moon came to the forge wearing her bustle of nards. The child stares and stares at her; the child keeps staring on. In the agitated air the moon moves her arms revealing lubricious and pure her breasts, tin and hard. Run away, moon, moon, moon! If the gypsies find where we are white necklaces and rings they’ll make of your heart. Little boy, let me dance, for when the gypsies come, on the anvil they’ll find you with your little eyes shut. Run away, moon, moon, moon; already I hear a horse. Little boy, let me be, don’t step on my whiteness of starch. Beating the drum of the plains the horseman approached, and inside the forge the child’s eyes are closed Through the olive grove they came, gypsies half bronze and half dream, their heads lifted up high, eyes closed as in sleep. How the owl is singing, from its tree, how it hoots! With a child by the hand through the sky goes the moon. Inside the forge the gypsies cry and scream. The air keeps on in vigil. The air its vigil keeps The moon came to the forge with his polisón of nardos. The boy the sight, watches. The boy is watching it. In the affected air he moves the moon his arms and he teaches, lascivious and pure, its sines of duro tin. It flees moon, moon, moon. If the gypsys came, they would do with your heart white necklaces and ring. Boy, leaves me that he dances. When the gypsys come, they will find you on the anvil with the closed ojillos. He flees moon, moon, moon, that I already feel its horses. Boy, leaves me, you are not above my starchy whiteness. The rider approached touching the drum of the level one. Within the forge the boy, has the closed eyes. By the olive grove they came, bronze and dream, the gypsys. The raised heads and the half-closed eyes. How it sings zumaya, ay, how it sings in the tree! By the sky the moon goes with a boy of the hand. Within the forge they cry, giving shouts, the gypsys. The air the candle, guards. The air is guarding it Moon came to the forge in her petticoat of nard The boy looks and looks the boy looks at the Moon In the turbulent air Moon lifts up her arms showing — pure and sexy — her beaten-tin breasts Run Moon run Moon Moon If the gypsies came white rings and white necklaces they would beat from your heart Boy will you let me dance — when the gypsies come they’ll find you on the anvil with your little eyes shut Run Moon run Moon Moon I hear the horses’ hoofs Leave me boy! Don’t walk on my lane of white starch The horseman came beating the drum of the plains The boy at the forge has his little eyes shut Through the olive groves in bronze and in dreams here the gypsies come their heads riding high their eyelids hanging low How the night heron sings how it sings in the tree Moon crosses the sky with a boy by the hand At the forge the gypsies cry and then scream The wind watches watches the wind watches the Moon The moon came to the forge wearing a bustle of Spikenards. The boy is looking at her. The boy is looking hard. In the troubled air, the wind moves her arms, showing lewd and pure, her hard, tin breasts. "Run, moon, moon, moon. If the gypsies came, they would make of your heart necklaces and white rings." "Child, let me dance. When the gypsies come, they will find you on the anvil with your little eyes shut tight." "Run, moon moon moon. I can hear their horses. Child, let me be, don't walk on my starchy white." The rider was drawing closer playing the drum of the plain. In the forge the child has his eyes shut tight. Bronze and dream, the gypsies cross the olive grove. Their heads held high, their eyes half open. Ay how the nightjar sings! How it sings in the tree! The moon goes through the sky with a child in her hand. In the forge the gypsies wept and cried aloud. The air is watching, watching. The air watched all night long. This is my version: The moon came to the forge dressed in her bustle gown. The boy looks and he stares. The boy keeps staring hard. The moon moves her arms in the breeze revealing her breasts of bright bronze, which entrance and entice him. “Run, oh moon, moon, moon. If the gypsies come they will turn your heart into shining trinkets.” “Boy, let me dance. When the gypsies come they will find you on the anvil with your little eyes closed.” “Run, oh moon, moon, moon, for I hear their horses now.” “Boy, let me be, don’t trample my gaudy garments”. The riders come closer, they hear their drum on the plain. Inside the forge the boy’s eyes shut tight. Through the grove come the gypsies, brazen or dreamy, heads high or eyes sleepy. How the owl cries, yea, how it cries in the tree! The moon crosses the sky leading a boy by the hand. Inside the forge the gypsies weep and they wail. The breeze keeps watch. The breeze is keeping watch. © Edward Lambert 2017
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