That old sunny Plaza,
where all the old village men & oddballs sit,
Where the black-clad
widows, back from mass, stop & rest a bit,
That old place where
you´ll find pigeons, dogs & nut brown babes,
Grey-garbed nuns &
well heeled Señoras, stern, starched & staid.
Beneath whispering
date palms, olives & old the persimmon trees,
Hark tolling of bronze
church bells, calling all voices to bended knees,
Heed the praying of
long gone monks, within the church-wall stones,
And the echoing of
the ancient dead, from crumbling tombstone bones.
The Plaza where butterflies,
orange trees & society, gather & daily meet,
Where icy fountains
splash under fronded trees, in humid summer´s heat,
That old Plaza of silver
stars, full creamed moons & many thousand suns,
La Plaza, that ancient
place of old grey stone & all of life´s forgotten sons.
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