"Romance de la Luna, Luna" (English) by Federico Garcia Lorca

The moon comes to the forge,

                    in her creamy-white petticoat.

                    The child stares, stares.

                    The child is staring at her.

                    In the breeze, stirred,

                    the moon stirs her arms

                    shows, pure, voluptuous,

                    her breasts of hard tin.

 

        ‘Away, moon, moon, moon.

                    If the gypsies come here,

                    they’ll take your heart for

                    necklaces and white rings.’

        ‘Child, let me dance now.

                    When the gypsies come here,

                    they’ll find you on the anvil,

                    with your little eyes closed.’

        ‘Away, moon, moon, moon,

                    because I hear their horses.’

        ‘Child, go, but do not tread

                    on my starched whiteness.’

 

                    The riders are coming nearer

                    beating on the plain, drumming.

                    Inside the forge, the child

                    has both his eyes closed.

 

                    Through the olive trees they come,

                    bronze, and dream, the gypsies,

                    their heads held upright,

                    their eyes half-open.


 
                    How the owl is calling.

                    Ay, it calls in the branches!

                    Through the sky goes the moon,

                    gripping a child’s fingers.

 

                    In the forge the gypsies

                    are shouting and weeping.

                    The breeze guards, guards.

                    The breeze guards it.

When I was in Spain, we discussed Garcia Lorca and specifically this poem.  It is beautiful in both languages.