A lonesome trumpet tells a tragic tale,
(One might say a tragedy)
That echoes the emptiness of teeming streets.
From the orange-blue skies, to the red rooftops of Madrid, I hear a cacophony of voices
Telling me to eat, **** and ****
God is still crying.
And as rain grinds the streets into dust,
I only wish to see the sun.
Read this poem over the first minute of Miles Davis' Concierto De Aranjuez. That's how it was meant to be read.