Road by Federico Garcia Lorca

A hundred riders in funeral dress,
where will they go
in that laid-to-rest sky
of the orange grove?
Neither Cordoba nor Sevilla
will they ever reach.
Nor that Granada which sighs
for the sea.
Those drowsy horses
will carry them:
to that labyrinth of crosses
where the song shudders so.
With seven ays piercing them,
where will they go
those hundred Andalusian riders
of the orange grove?

translated by Carlos Bauer