Sleepwalking am I ?

Green, how I love you green.
Green wind.
Green branches.
The boat on the sea and the
horse on the mountain.
with a shadow round her waist
she dreams t at her railing,
Green flesh,
Green hair,
with eyes of cold silver.
Green, how I love you green.
Under the gypsy moon
all things are looking at her
but she cannot look back at
them.

Green, how I love you green.
Great stars of frost
come with the shadow-fish
that opens the path of dawn.
The fig tree rubs its wind
with sandpaper branches,
and the hill, wild cat,
bristles its sour agave-leaves.
But who will come ?
And from where...?
she stays at her railing,
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.
I come bleeding from the
mountain pass.
If I could, my friend,
I would close this deal.
But I am no longer I
and my house is not my house.
I want to die decently
in my bed.
A steel bed, if it can be,
with sheets of fine linen.
Can't you see this wound
from my chest to my throat ?
Or perhaps in my heart ?
Three hundred dark roses
are on your white shirt.
Your blood oozes and smells
around your sash.
But I am no longer I
and my house is not my house.
Let me climb at least
as far as the high railings.
Let me climb !
Let me,
as far as the green railings. 
Railings of the moon
where the water roars.
But I am no longer I,
and this is only perhaps a dream...

Green,
how I love you green.
On the roofs.
Green,
how I love you green...