Old shadows
slink around cobbled cornered walls,
Black olives,
warm, fat & oily, heavily drops & falls,
Heat buzzes
upon the wings of sluggish striped bees,
Birds sit
nodding in tired, dusty & ancient carob trees.
Sins of
youth, whispered behind closed lids & old blinds,
Where the
siesta sacred, unites & deeply, steamily binds,
Deep breathing
flamenco, strumming of Castilian guitar,
The only voice
heard, upon the still Smokey air from afar.
Beret-headed old
men, on plaza benches reminisce & sit,
Grizzled &
cracked brown by eons of old sun & earth´s grit,
Birds have flown,
the bull is dead & donkeys no longer bray,
On hot bated breath,
old Señoras kneel & so devotedly pray.
On the dusty whispered
winds of those forgotten long rains,
In surrounding
Sierras, echoed wailing of burnt cindered pain,
The silent footsteps
tiptoeing where summer treads & goes,
Laying down the
bloody cape, upon cobbles of the dying rose.
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