Federico Garcia Lorca Quote
Arbole, Arbole . . .Tree, treedry 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 byon 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 turneddark 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 facekeeps on picking olives with the grey arm of the wind wrapped around her waist.Tree, treedry and green.
Arbole, Arbole . . .Tree, treedry 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 byon 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 turneddark 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 facekeeps on picking olives with the grey arm of the wind wrapped around her waist.Tree, treedry and green.
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