Tree, tree dry and green.

 

The girl with the pretty face

is out picking olives.

The wind, playboy of towers,

grabs her around the waist.

Four riders passed by on Andalusian ponies, with blue and green jackets

and big, dark capes.

"Come to Cordoba, muchacha."

The girl won't listen to them.

Three young bullfighters passed,

slender in the waist,

with jackets the color of oranges

and swords of ancient silver.

"Come to Sevilla, muchacha."

The girl won't listen to them.

When the afternoon had turned

dark brown, with scattered light,

a young man passed by,

wearing roses and myrtle of the moon.

"Come to Granada, muchacha."

And the girl won't listen to him.

The girl with the pretty face

keeps on picking olives

with the grey arm of the wind

wrapped around her waist.

Tree, tree dry and green.

                    by Federico Garcia Lorca