BY FEDERICO GARCÍA LORCA
One hundred horsemen in mourning,
where will they go,
through the reclining air
of the orange grove?
They will reach
neither Cordova nor Seville,
nor Granada who sighs
for the sea.
Their sleepy horses
will bear them
to the labyrinth of crosses
where the song hangs quivering.
With seven piercing sighs,
where will they go,
the hundred Andalusian riders
from the orange grove?