Tree Tree

Maria Fernanda Mantilla


Tree, tree,
Dry and green.

The girl of beautiful face
Goes gathering olives.
The winde, that suitor of towers,
Grasps her round the waist.
Four riders have passed
On Andulasian ponies,
With suits of azure and green,
And long dark cloaks.
“Come to Cordoba, lass.”
The girl pays no heed.
Three young bullfighters have passed,
Their waists are slender,
Their suits orange-coloured,
Their swords of antique silver.
“Comes to Sevilla, lass.”
The girl pays no heed.
When the evening became
Purple, with diffused light,
A youth passed by bringing
Roses and myrtles of the moon.
“Come to Granada, lass.”
But the girl pays no heed.
The girl of beautiful face
Still goes on gathering olives,
With the gray arm of the wind
Encircling her waits.

Tree, tree,
Dry and green.