The Spilled Blood F. G. Lorca - translation

No, I refuse to see it!

Tell the moon to ascend.
No, I don’t want to see it,
Ignacio’s blood on the sand!

No, I refuse to see it!

The moon opens its reams,
moves in the clouds and dances,
the gray arena of dreams
with willows behind fences.

No, I refuse to see it!

The memories burn and bite.
Tell the gentle jasmine
to bring its piccolo white.

No, I refuse to see it!

The cow covered in mud,
the cow that knew what it meant
wiped with its tongue the blood
spilled on the yellow sand.
And the bulls of Guisando
resembling the lumps of stone,
burdened into surrender,
trod quietly and alone.

No, I refuse to see it!

Ignacio goes upstairs
holding Death by the arm,
he waits for the morning glares,
for dawn that would never come.
He tries to wake up, to smile,
to exit - all doors are shut.
He looks for his clean profile
and finds his crying blood.
No, I don’t want to see it,
don’t force me to feel the spurts
strained, slowly subsiding,
the wound that bleeds and blurts.
Oh crowds, bloodthirsty, dumb,
masses excited, cheered!
Who shouts for me to come?
Don’t tell me I have to see it!
 
His eyes did not shut in fear,
The horns drew a mortal arch
but mothers who were near
stretched their necks to watch.
And on a sloping farm,
herding celestial cattle,
voices of mist and harm
locked in a ruthless battle.

Not any prince in Seville,
search there long and hard,
could match his sword and his skill,
nor heart that could match his heart.
His marble torso, his power -
a flowing river of lions.
Tall, inaccessible towers
have contours of his defiance.
Andalusia’s air
gilded his head and lit.
His laughter beyond compare
was a spikenard of wit.
How great he was in the ring!
What a good mountaineer!
How gentle with flowers of spring!
How harsh with the spurs - no fear!
How tender towards the dew!
How brilliant at the fair!
Magnificent with the few
last darts that would tease and glare.
His sleep now will never end,
now grasses that learned to gull
put fingers into the sand
to open and rob his skull.
His blood now is full of songs,
it sings through the marshes and meadows,
it slides from the stony horns,
it gropes in the eyes of widows, 
in the eyes that cradle distress.
It runs over cuts and scars
to end in the pool of death,
in the Guadalquivir of stars.

Oh, the black bull of grief!
Oh, the white wall of Spain!
Ignacio’s blood, red sleeve!
Oh nightingale of his veins!

No.
I refuse to see it!
No chance it can be contained.
No swallow could drink it up.
No frost that could make it faint.
No chant, no flowering shrub,
no wrapping, no silver paint,
not any human endeavor.
No,
I refuse to see it!
No, I won’t see it ever!