An Inspired Take on Lorca’s Blood Wedding

By Diya Singh

A bride sits waiting by her windowsill,

Her dress pools around her feet - 

The weight of which would bring strong, worldly men to their knees - 

Burdens they cannot shoulder rest on her crumbling frame.

Her hands and feet clamor as she gets up, 

Anklets and bangles clash against one another - 

They ring out her love, and her desperation.

The bride looks out onto a morose countryside, 

A darkening grey sky, as murky as the depths of her misery, 

And a crack of lightning! 

The deathly harbinger of a fearsome fate.

A pitter-patter of rocks grabs her attention, 

She looks out and her breath hitches - 

A horse as white as bone stands tall, and 

Atop it is the man she dreads the most. 

What compels you to come to me now? 

See not the hour? It’s far too late to steal me now. 

But I am your Lover. How could I not come to you?

Now? In this penultimate hour? 

How can I give you away to some less-deserving imp - 

When my love can turn boulders to ash and

Level monstrous mountains to plains? 

Had your love no staying power, no resolve,

When I begged you to whisk me away?

Where was your love when I was locked away, 

Where was it when I atoned for a sin I did not commit - 

Where was it then, and what brings it by now?

Call your love the coward he is, and leave me be. 

Tell me then! 

Tell me you do not love me, do not wish to be with me! Say you can go a day without looking into my eyes, 

A week without the touch of my lips, 

A month without the warmth of my embrace, 

A year without my dogged devotion 

And a lifetime without my cowardly love. 

Say it now, and I shall leave you forever! 

I shall send you off to marry that oaf. 

Curse you! Curse your wicked tongue - 

Catch it before it slips again and wreaks havoc on my being. 

You dare to come before me, 

On the grounds of my childhood home and tell me to leave you?

If your love can level the Earth, then mine can wreck ships 

And change the winds of the World.

If your love is as cowardly as you say, then mine is twice as steadfast. 

If I went a day, a week, a month, a year without your love -

I would be as good as dead. 

Why should I fear death?

I have in this self-same life, loved you wholly, 

And been sworn to another man. 

If leaving with you is death, 

Then I have no want for life.

However weak my love once was, 

It is long-forgotten in the wake of your devotion. 

Come away with me!

My stallion is sturdy and I am brave,

My heart, my body, and mind is yours.

Leave your wedding gown, throw away that sickly bouquet -

Seeing you betrothed to that man has plagued me, 

Day and night, For weeks now. 

When you left, I felt my spirit leave with you!

You are my soul - and if I were to leave you here tonight,

I should return dead upon this steed. 

Come away with me, my Bride! 

Perhaps the Bride should have known better, 

Taken a second look at her belongings - 

The house her father had given away as dowry, 

The acres of fields she would inherit, 

The abundance of gold and fine silks that her groom's house had to offer. 

Perhaps she should have thought of her family outside, 

The guests downstairs, the musicians and servers, 

The flower-girl and the bridesmaids - 

Or the townsfolk awaiting her arrival, 

The priest - waiting to marry her off. 

Perhaps. 

But alas, no such thought struck her. 

Her spirit lay with her Lover. 

If he willed her away, 

Then away she must go.

Verse 2 - The Marriage Party 

What joy! What gaiety! 

Never had this house been so well-dressed,

Or as ornate in all its adornings. 

The townsfolk flitted in and out - 

All in their wedding suits and frocks. 

The foreboding weather from earlier, 

And the oncoming storm seemed to have disappeared - 

There only existed a single grey cloud in the otherwise clear sky. 

Flower girls danced along the verandah and courtyards, 

Their little feet tapping away at the terrazzo floors 

In time to the musician’s flute and violin - 

Their neatly done hair, now undoing itself.

And the musicians all took part in the pomp, 

Making their music ever faster - 

And for a minute, it seemed as though the little girls

Would never stop their spinning. 

That time would stand still. 

And summer shall never dull. 

The prick of the heat,

and the warmth of the air

Shall remain hanging indefinitely. 

But, every song and each dance that accompanies it

Must come to its inevitable end. 

And as though by some divine cue, 

Our beloved Groom enters and beholds the festivities of the house. 

O mother! Come look at this - 

Look how sweet and fragrant these orange blossoms are! 

Can we not give my Bride a bouquet?

His mother pulls him away dotingly,

And ushers him towards the front of the house 

Where his father-in-law awaits his arrival. 

There are details to be exacted, and numbers to be calculated. 

After all, a daughter was leaving the house - 

She could not be sent away unaccounted for. 

Her freedom was worth her weight in gold. 

And gold, they had gotten. 

Unattended, the guests sauntered in,

And amongst them came the Lover’s wife - 

She walked past the display of orange blossoms, nursing a fussy babe. 

Oh how he wailed and cried!

Hush! See the pretty little girls, 

They’ll be walking you down the aisle later. 

You’ll only be able to do that if you’re well behaved - 

Don’t you want to give the bride away later?

Her pleas were to no avail, 

The child harked on - bawling and sobbing. 

Come now, what is it?

Shall I sing you a song? Oh, please don’t fuss! 

For what seemed like a miraculously long time, 

The child stood still and silent - 

Listening to his mother’s sweet voice, 

As she sang the lullaby he had once heard in a time long-gone. 

Sleep soundly, my baby, 

For there stands a sturdy black stallion - 

The might of which could frighten even a grown man. 

The horse is hounded by his thirst, 

He cries and cries until his muzzle is wet from want - 

Where could he turn to? 

What spring could water his dry, aching throat?

Come now, my brave son, let’s sleep. For the horse is parched and mad. 

The stallion gallops far and wide, 

And comes to a pond - darkened under the shade of a cherry tree. 

And the horse, it starts to weep - 

For it will not drink the water before it. 

His hooves are caked with mud and blood, 

His wayward mane is tousled by the wild wind, 

And from his eye, there protrudes a glimmering, silver dagger. 

Come now, valiant babe. Let us sleep, for the horse - it cannot see. 

Mad horse, wild horse! 

Come away from the water won’t you! 

But alas, he cannot hear us - 

The horse collapses, an inch or two away from the pond.

How sorry I feel for the poor, bleeding horse. 

The water is right before you, and yet you cannot see it. 

Slowly, but surely - the stallion bleeds itself to death - 

Mere inches away from what gave it life. 

The pond is stained now, all blood and no life. 

Come now, my child. Let us sleep, for the horse never can. 

By Diya Singh