Green, as I love you, greenly.
Green the wind, and green the branches.
They climbed up, the two companions.
In the mouth, the dark breezes left there a strange flavour, of gall, and mint, and sweet basil.

‘Brother, friend! Where is she, tell me, where is she, your bitter beauty?
How often, she waited for you!
How often, she would have waited, cool the face, and dark the tresses, on this green veranda!’

-Lorca