bold words are lettered in
handwritten phrases
on her wall
in blood red paint
tales of great conquest
tales of greater defeat
all woven with the same spanish thread
from a small villa north of madrid

he bears with him a golden box
in the secret pocket of his long coat
within are all the treasures
that could dazzle a young fair madiens eye
all the riches that could bend the back
of any petty flesh or metal merchant

with a careful flare and practiced theatrics
he pulls it forth to the awe of the gathering crowd
his trade-craft is the peddling of dark dreams
in a sleepless land
of giving just enough to tease into wishing
but never quite enough to persuade

as he himself was
all his work is woven from the same spanish thread
from a small villa north of madrid
woven to speak to the heart
with the rich deep earthen tones
found in spains muddy soil
woven to speak to the soul
with the heady lust of a spanish romance

the words on her wall
speak of her years with her one true love
and of their deep passions
and of how he had rode off to war
telling her he would soon return
and her long years waiting
watching the forever empty road
wearing her favorite dress
woven from  spanish thread
from a small villa north of madrid