The Arrest of Antoñito el Camborio on the road to Seville

Antonio Torres Heredia,

Son and grandson of Camborios,

A willow wand in his hand,

Went to Seville to see the bulls.

Dark-skinned as the green moon,

Slowly he strolls but with grace,

His blue-polished tresses

Shinning between his eyes.

He cuts some round lemons

And in the middle of the road

Throws them in the water

Until it turns to gold.

And in the middle of the road,

Beneath the branches of elm,

The Civil Guard goose step by,

And bear him off, arm in arm.

Slowly the day goes by,

The evening hangs upon one shoulder

Of a matador’s cape, sweeping

Over the sea and the small rivers.

The olive trees are awaiting

The night of Capricorn,

And over the leaden mountains

A sharp breeze leaps like a stallion.

Antonio Torres Heredia,

Son and grandson of Camborios,

A willow wand lost from his hand,

Between five tri-corner hats.

Antonio, what sort of man are you?

If you call yourself Camborio’s boy,

You should have made out of them

Five fountains spurting their own blood.

You are not a real Camborio,

You are no one’s son.

There are no more gypsies left,

No one walks the mountain alone!

Their old knives lay rusting,

Shivering, under dirt and rock.

At nine o’clock that night

They brought him to the jail,

While the Civil Guards Drank lemonade.

At nine o’clock that night

They shut him up in jail

While they night sky shone

Like a rump of a new foal.