Pillar of Santa Ana Square
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)