It's all here: the death, the rose (of blood), the birds, the guitars' whisper; above all, the romantic desperation of the opening lines. Duende in spades, in ten lines.

Barrio de Córdoba (Federico García Lorca, trans. Rob Hindle)

What drew me to this one was the imagery. The wine-dark sea, the lemon groves above Málaga, this giant, blind man singing with a child's voice. And Pena: is the capital a typo in my edition? Or is it something so fundamental that Lorca must name it?