Lola 
sings deep songs;
the figurine toreadors
encircle her still,
and the hobbled barber,
latched to his door jamb,
keeps time
with the bobbing of his head.
Between the sweet basil,
and spearmint,
Lola 
laments to God.
Lola
who looked down so often,
and only at herself in the pool.

Author: Federico García Lorca
Translator: Manny Grimaldi