Pueblo A calvary, on the naked hillside. Clear water. Centenarian olives. The the narrow alleys, men with cloaks on, and on turrets, wind-vanes, circling. Eternally rotating O lost pueblo, in Andalusia of sorrows! |
Tune of first desire In the green morning I wanted to be a heart. A heart. And in the ripe evening I wanted to be a nightingale. A nightingale. (Soul, turn orange-colored. Soul, turn into the color of love.) In the vivid morning I wanted to be myself. A heart. And at the evening's end I wanted to be my voice. A nightingale. Soul, turn orange-colored. Soul, turn into the color of love. |