On Sundays I have breakfast with oranges and... ANTONIO MACHADO
Orange tree in pot, how sad is your fate!
Your leaves are shivering and shivering.
Orange tree in the court, how sad it is to see you
With your little oranges dry and wrinkled!
Poor lemon tree with yellow fruit
like a polished knob of pale wax,
what a pity to look at you, miserable sapling
bred in a mean wooden barrel!
From the clear forests of Andalusia,
who brought you to this Castilian land
that the winds of the harsh mountains sweep,
sons of the fields of my land?
Glory of the orchards, lemon tree!
that you light the fruits of pale gold,
and illuminate from the austere black cypress grove
the quiet prayers erect in chorus;
and fresh orange tree of the beloved courtyard,
of the laughing field and the dreamed orchard,
always in my memory, ripe or blooming
of fronds and scents and fruits laden!
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