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Tree, Tree
Tree, tree,
dry and green.
The girl with the lovely face
is out picking olives.
The bold seducing wind
grabs her round the waist.
Four riders passed by
on Andalusian ponies,
in azure and emerald suits
and long shadowy cloaks.
'Come to Cordoba, young lady!'
The girl ignores them.
Three young bullfighters passed by,
slim and wasp-waisted,
wearing suits of bright orange
and swords of antique silver.
‘Come to Seville, young lady!’
The girl ignores them.
When the evening turned
mauve and began to fade,
a young man passed by clutching
roses and the myrtle of moonlight.
‘Come to Granada, young lady!’
And the girl ignores him.
The girl with the lovely face
goes on picking olives
with the wind’s grey arms
tight around her waist.
Tree, tree,
dry and green.
English translation by Paul Archer of Lorca's Arbolé, arbolé.
For more translations of poems by Lorca, go to Translations. |
