시인의 첫사랑 시 (6)

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Jane Miller :

 

"Song of Amargo's Mother" frightened me terribly, for it presented a familiar world of numbers and lemonade, but it was a sad song, and violent. Someone was dead, and his mother didn't want anyone to weep. I knew nothing about Spanish Catholics, but I knew the moon, where he apparently now lived, and dreaded the twenty-seventh of August for years.

 

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Song of Amargo's Mother

By Federico García Lorca

 

They carry him placed upon my sheet,

upon my oleander and my palm leaves.

 

The twenty-seventh day of August,

with a tiny little knife of gold.

 

The cross. And so much for that!

He was so dark and so very bitter.

 

Neighber ladies, bring me a brass

pitcher filled full of lemonade.

 

The cross. Don't anybody weep.

For Amargo is now in the moon.