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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, inuchacha."
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.
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To say that the translation of any poets work can not be understood by someone from another culture shows a great lack of faith in the understanding of your peers. It is translated in tribute to his work and to spread knowledge of his poetry and the contributions he made. This does not make him any less of a historical figure in Spain. In fact, it pays homage to him. Translators take great passion in the work that they do because they do not merely believe they are exchanging one language for another but more importantly maintaining its meaning and the strength brought from its native language. I can read Lorca and although my experience may be different from yours I hope you will have faith that how it affects me can be equally as powerful as the way you are moved.
Tiana from United States