Pillar of Santa Ana Square

See route

By the river banks



the night is getting wet



and on Lolita's breasts



the bouquets are dying of love.



The bouquets are dying of love.



The night sings naked



on the bridges of March.



Lolita washes her body



with brackish water and tuberoses.



The bouquets are dying of love.



The night of anise and silver



shines on the roofs.



Silver of streams and mirrors,



anise of your white thighs.



The bouquets are dying of love.



(F. García Lorca)