Amargura
Cordoba doesn't come to terms.
This is a town still Arabic,
savage, suffocating,
its sluggish river absorbing
the cruel heat, not dispelling it.
All is light or shade.
No middle way.
No compromise.
The women of Cordoba
are dark and hard to know.
With the eyes of the doe,
and just as shy,
they go to the orchard
when the soil is dry
and find succulence.
Naranjas cordobesas
are semi-wild,
with a tang severe,
uncompromising.
This is a land
where bland is unknown.
Cordoba.
Far off, and alone.
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