Dry land,
quiet land
of night's
immensity.

(Wind in the olive groves,
wind in the Sierra.)

Ancient
land
of oil lamps
and grief.
Land
of deep cisterns.
Land of death without eyes
and arrows.

(Wind on the roads.
Breeze in the poplar groves.)

Village

Upon a barren hill,
a Calvary.
Clear water
and century-old olive trees.
In the narrow streets,
men hidden under cloaks,
and on the towers
the spinning vanes.
Forever
spinning.
Oh, village lost
in the Andalucia of tears!

Dagger

The dagger
enters the haert
the way plowshares turn over
the wasteland.

No.
Do not cut into me.
No.

Like a ray of sun,
the dagger
ignites terrible
hollows.

No.
Do not cut into me.
No.

Crossroads

East wind,
a street lamp
and a dagger
in the heart.
The street
quivers like
tightly pulled
string,
like a huge, buzzing
horsefly.
Everywhere,
I see a dagger
in the heart.

Ay!

The cry leaves shadows of cypress
upon the wind.

(Leave me here, in this field,
weeping.)

The whole world's broken.
Only silence remains.

(Leave me here, in this field,
weeping).

The darkened horizon's
bitten by bonfires.

(I've told you already to leave me
here, in this field,
weeping.)

Surprise

He lay dead in the street
wit ha dagger in his chest.
Nobody knew who he was.
How the streep lamp flickered!
Mother of god,
how the street lamp
faintly flickered!
It was dawn. Nobody
could look up, wide-eyed,
into the glare.
And he lay dead in the street
with a dagger in his chest,
and nobody knew who he was.

Soleá

Wearing black mantillas,
she thinks the world is tiny
and the heart immense.

Wearing black mantillas.

She thinks that tender sighs
and cries disappear
into currents of wind.

Wearing black mantillas.

The door was left open,
and at dawn the entire sky
emptied onto her balcony.

Ay, yayayayay,
wearing black mantillas.

Cave

From the cave
come endless sobbings.

(Purple
over red.)

The gypsy
calls forth the distance.

(Tall towers
and mysterious men.)

In an unsteady voice
his eyes wander.

(Black
over red.)

And the white-washed cave
trembled in gold.

(White
over red.)

Encounter

For you and I
aren't ready
to find each other.
You... as you well know.
I loved her so much!
Follow the narrowest path.
I have
holes
in my hands
from the nails.
Can't you see how
I'm bleeding to death?
Don't look back,
go slowly,
and pray as I do
to San Cayetano
for you and I
aren't ready
to find each other.

Dawn

Bells of Cordoba
in the early morning.
Bells of Granada
at dawn.
You are felt by all the girls
who weep to the tender,
weeping Solea.
The girls
of upper Andalucia,
and of lower.
You girls of Spain,
with tiny feet
and trembling skirts,
who've filled the crossroads
with crosses.
Oh, bells of Cordoba
in the early morning,
and, oh, the bells of Granada
at dawn!

Great men have died for
Their country. Today, 'great men'
Negotiate deals.

in Andalucia, past valley and dale
      run the golden, sunflower fields
      and a hut is a house that stands all alone
      ivy and flowers have overtaken stone
      and the rusty, old Santa Fe door
      and warm, pink clay floor
      this is the home I've seen these years
      a dream welded with passions tears.

      Climb the peaks of the Rockies tall
      off the edge, don't tread or fall.
      Hear the sound of the bald eagles cry
      the flash of summer lightning in the sky
      breathe in deep the mountain air
      come to my cabin, find me there.

      Home is where the heart is
      that is what they say
      dreamers dreaming escapes,
      every single day.
      I've built mine on the sands of my sleep
      water my gardens with the emotion I weep.

      Swim in the blue seas, fair and calm
      the salty air a warm, sweet balm
      feel the sand, clinging to your feet
      walk the golden expanse of a deserted beach.
      Find a hammock, swinging ever more
      who needs a key to a sunshine-built door?

      Roll in the grass of a swollen, green plain
      made lush after days of endless gray rain.
      Wicked sun, both hot and cold
      the breeze runs rampant, the fields unfold.
      Wheat meet Wood, tall and strong
      trees that grow, bows lush and long.
      Build me a palace within these leaves
      a kingdom of green amongst these trees.

      Home is where the heart is
      that is what they say
      dreamers dreaming escapes,
      every single day.
      I've built mine on the sands of my sleep
      water my gardens with the emotion I weep.

      Home is where the heart is
      that is what they say
      escapes etched in cavern walls
      in the sunlight of the day.
      Scribe a vision which never was
      plot it in the starry sky—
      Home; the dream, just because...
      it hurts so much to lie.

(This is a very old Spanish fairy tale that was told to me by my first Spanish teacher. It has lived in my heart since then and I am temporarily re-telling it in prose)

A sultan in Moorish Andalucia acquired a new bride, a beautiful young woman from the snowy far North, Scandinavia, in fact. The sultan was delighted with her gentle manners and exquisite looks, but grew concerned when he noticed that, day after day, she was discovered seated in one particular window that overlooked his garden behind the grand palace, the one with a view that took in the sierras. He asked one of her servants to inquire into her mistress's behaviour and learned that she was deeply depressed because she missed her home. A little annoyed but curious, the sultan approached his bride, determined to get to the bottom of the matter and change her demeanour.

"Why so melancholy, fair one?" he asked her and with a sweep of one jeweled hand indicated the magnificence of the room they currently occupied. "I have provided thee with many jewels and beautiful clothing, sweet perfumes and well-appointed chambers, such as these, where you can take your ease. What else must I do to bring a blush to your pale cheek?"

"Oh, my Lord," replied the maiden, "If you must understand, I am a maid from the far North, the land of snows and the Midnight Sun. Forgive me for my melancholy! I am grateful for your kindness and mercy but, quite simply, I wish I could look out this window and see only the cold white snow below! How my heart would rejoice for it would remind me of home!"

The sultan smiled because it was only the beginning of the summer. "Alas, fair one," he said and sighed, "That is impossible.
While there is snow in the distant mountains, we do never see it here in the valleys." And he reached out to touch his bride's soft cheek, saddened when tears flowed over his fingers. "But be of good cheer. I am the ruler of these lands and if we cannot go to the snows, then...I shall bring them here."

Several months went by and the princess became sadder and sadder to the point where she could no longer leave her bedchamber. And then, one crisp lovely late winter morning, the sultan's servants announced his entry into her bedroom. The sultan was shocked when he saw her, still beautiful but so thin and so pale. However, he was confident and urged her servants to dress her warmly and prepare her a chair. "My lovely one," he said to his bride, "I have something to show you. Come away with me. I think you will be pleased."

The sultan, his princess, and their retinue proceeded to the window where she had previously sat, the window looking over the garden, the one with the view of the sierras. And, lo! Everyone but the sultan gasped when the hangings were pulled aside to reveal a garden filled with...snow.

But it wasn't snow.

The garden was filled with almond tress, thousands upon thousands of almond trees as far as the eye could see, each almond tree bursting with life, each tree laden with fragile white flowers.

Do I need to say that the princess was stunned by her husband's loving gesture and that she recovered immediately?

As you expect, they lived happily ever after and every year, the princess had her beloved "snow".

The End.