Green how I want you green. 
Green wind. Green branches. 
The ship on the sea, 
and the horse on the mountain. 
with a shadow at her waist 
she dreams on her rail, 
Green flesh, green hair, 
with eyes of cold silver. 
Green how I want you green. 
Under the gypsy moon, 
things are looking at her, 
And she cannot look at them. Green how I want you green. 
Giant stars of frost 
come with the shadow-fish 
that opens the road of the dawn. 
The fig tree chafes the wind 
with its sandpaper branches 
and the mountain, a thieving cat, 
bristles its sour agave. 
But who will come? And from where? . . . 
She waits at her rail, 
green flesh, green hair, 
Dreaming of the bitter sea. "My friend, I want to trade 
my horse for your house, 
my saddle for your mirror, 
my knife for your blanket. 
My friend, I come bleeding 
from the Cabra Pass." 
"If I could, my lad, 
I would take your offer. 
But I am not me anymore, 
nor is my house my own." 
"My friend, I want to die 
decently, in my bed. 
If steel, if that can be, 
with sheets of fine linen. 
Don't you see this wound I have 
from my chest to my throat?" 
"Three hundred brown roses 
cover your white shirt. 
Your blood oozes and reeks 
all around your sash. 
But I am not me anymore, 
Nor is my house my own." 
"Let me climb at least 
to the top of the high railings. 
Let me climb! Let me, 
up to the green railings. 
The railings of the moon 
where the water roars.The two friends then climbed 
towards the high railings. 
Leaving a trail of blood. 
Leaving a trail of tears. 
On the roof were trembling 
tiny tin lanterns . 
A thousand crystal tambourines 
wounded the dawn sky. Green how I want you green, 
Green wind, green branches. 
The two friends climbed. 
The long wind, left behind 
in their mouths, a strange taste 
of gall, mint, and basil. 
"My friend! Where is she, tell me, 
where is your bitter girl?" 
"How many times she waited for you! 
How many times she would wait, 
fresh face, black hair, 
on this green railing!" Over the face of the well 
rocked the gypsy girl. 
Green flesh, green hair, 
with eyes of cold silver. 
An icicle of the moon 
holds her over the water. 
The night drew in 
like a small town square. 
Drunk Civil Guards 
banged loudly on the door. 
Green how I want you green. 
Green wind, green branches. 
The ships on the sea. 
And the horse on the mountain.