landscape without song

Blue sky.
Yellow field.

Blue mountain.
Yellow field.

Across the scorched plain
an olive tree drifts.

One lone
olive
tree.

Federico Garcia Lorca

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horizonte

A sun without rays
spills on green mist.

The shaded riverside
dreams at the pace of a boat
and the unavoidable
bell measures melancholy.

In my spent soul
the sound of a small
silver drum.

Federico Garcia Lorca