GREEN, HOW I WANT YOU GREEN

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 the 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 spun wool
Don't you see the wound I have
from my chest up to my throat?


--Three hundred damson roses
bloom on your white shirt
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.
A sliver of the 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.

Ballad of the Sleepwalker
by Federico García Lorca
 
 
Recently we have been getting these strange and wonderful ranunculas from Chile which are part of a series developed by the renowned Italian anemone and ranunculas breeders "Biancheri".
The green centers have been encouraged to develop calyceous material which results in delightful eruptions of green form the bright centers. Of all of them however, my favorites are the green ranunculas each of which seems to be an unique creation.
And occasionally we get Green Zebras.