Three little harlots
with artificial roses in their hair
each at a window of a third-class coach
on the train from Zafra to the fair.
Too much powder and too much paint
shining black hair.
One sings to the clatter of wheels
a swaying unending song
that trails across the crimson slopes
and the blue ranks of olives
and the green ranks of vines.
Three little harlots
on the train from Zafra to the fair.
The plowman drops the traces
on the shambling oxen's backs
turns his head and stares
wistfully after the train.
The mule-boy stops his mules
shows his white teeth and shouts
a word, then urges dejectedly
the mules to the road again.
The stout farmer on his horse
straightens his broad felt hat,
makes the horse leap, and waves
grandiosely after the train.
Is it that the queen Astarte
strides across the fallow lands
to fertilize the swelling grapes
amid shrieking of her corybants?
Too much powder and too much paint
shining black hair.
Three little harlots
on the train from Zafra to the fair.
_Sevilla--Merida_