translated text // texto traducido
With parchment moon in hand
saunters Precious, playing,
along an amphibious path
of laurels and crystal shining.
the starless silence, 5
escaping from the sonance,
falls where sea pounds and sings
its night a fish-filled darkness.
On the peaks of the mountains
the cavalry slumber 10
while guarding white towers
where the English lumber.
and the river gypsies,
delighting themselves,
construct bowers from green 15
pine boughs and conch shells.
With parchment moon in hand
saunters Precious, playing.
Upon seeing her the Wind
that never tires starts preying. 20
Saint Christopher, naked
full of heavenly discourse,
watches her play
an absent, sweet chor’s.
Child, so that I may see you, 25
lift up your guise.
Open your womb’s blue rose
in my fingers so wise
Precious throws her tambourine
and runs without break 30
The man, as if wind, pursues
her with fiery stake.
The sea purses its murmur,
The olive trees turn sallow.
The flutes sing of shade 35
and the still gong of the snow.
Precious! Run, Precious!
for the green wind is chasing you!
Precious! Run, Precious!
Pay attention from where he comes 40
he, the Satyr of the low stars
with his radiant language.
Precious, full of fear,
far above the pines,
go inside the building, 45
where the English House lies.
Frightened by her cries
three cavalry arise,
black capes clinging taut
caps fitted to temples
the Englishman gives the gypsy girl 50
a glass of milk lukewarm
and a cup of gin liquor
that Precious doesn’t drink
Crying, she recounts
her adventure to those people, 55
while in the works of slate
the wind, furious, gnashes
_
satyr and bacchante :: james pradier
saunters Precious, playing,
along an amphibious path
of laurels and crystal shining.
the starless silence, 5
escaping from the sonance,
falls where sea pounds and sings
its night a fish-filled darkness.
On the peaks of the mountains
the cavalry slumber 10
while guarding white towers
where the English lumber.
and the river gypsies,
delighting themselves,
construct bowers from green 15
pine boughs and conch shells.
With parchment moon in hand
saunters Precious, playing.
Upon seeing her the Wind
that never tires starts preying. 20
Saint Christopher, naked
full of heavenly discourse,
watches her play
an absent, sweet chor’s.
Child, so that I may see you, 25
lift up your guise.
Open your womb’s blue rose
in my fingers so wise
Precious throws her tambourine
and runs without break 30
The man, as if wind, pursues
her with fiery stake.
The sea purses its murmur,
The olive trees turn sallow.
The flutes sing of shade 35
and the still gong of the snow.
Precious! Run, Precious!
for the green wind is chasing you!
Precious! Run, Precious!
Pay attention from where he comes 40
he, the Satyr of the low stars
with his radiant language.
Precious, full of fear,
far above the pines,
go inside the building, 45
where the English House lies.
Frightened by her cries
three cavalry arise,
black capes clinging taut
caps fitted to temples
the Englishman gives the gypsy girl 50
a glass of milk lukewarm
and a cup of gin liquor
that Precious doesn’t drink
Crying, she recounts
her adventure to those people, 55
while in the works of slate
the wind, furious, gnashes
_
satyr and bacchante :: james pradier
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