Tree, tree <br />dry and green. <br /> <br />The girl with the pretty face <br />is out picking olives. <br />The wind, playboy of towers, <br />grabs her around the waist. <br />Four riders passed by <br />on Andalusian ponies, <br />with blue and green jackets <br />and big, dark capes. <br />"Come to Cordoba, muchacha." <br />The girl won't listen to them. <br />Three young bullfighters passed, <br />slender in the waist, <br />with jackets the color of oranges <br />and swords of ancient silver. <br />"Come to Sevilla, muchacha." <br />The girl won't listen to them. <br />When the afternoon had turned <br />dark brown, with scattered light, <br />a young man passed by, wearing <br />roses and myrtle of the moon. <br />"Come to Granada, inuchacha." <br />And the girl won't listen to him. <br />The girl with the pretty face <br />keeps on picking olives <br />with the grey arm of the wind <br />wrapped around her waist. <br />Tree, tree <br />dry and green.<br /><br />Federico García Lorca<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/arbol-eacute-arbol-eacute-nbsp-nbsp-nbsp/
