Lyrics of 'Arbolé, Arbolé' by Marta Gómez

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Arbolé arbolé
Seco y verdé.

La niña del bello rostro
Está cogiendo aceituna.
El viento, galán de torres,
La prende por la cintura.

Pasaron cuatro jinetes,
Sobre jacas andaluzas
Con trajes de azul y verde,
Con largas capas oscuras.

"Vente a Córdoba, muchacha."
La niña no los escucha.

Pasaron tres torerillos
Delgaditos de cintura,
Con trajes color naranja
Y espadas de plata antigua.

"Vente a Sevilla, muchacha."
La niña no los escucha.

Cuando la tarde se puso
Morada, con luz difusa,
Pasó un joven que llevaba
Rosas y mirtos de luna.

"Vente a Granada, muchacha."
Y la niña no lo escucha.

La niña del bello rostro
Sigue cogiendo aceituna,
Con el brazo gris del viento
Ceñido por la cintura.

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