Flamenco Song

I wasn't ready for it when it hit. Pathetic, self-absorbed, wallowing in grief, plaiting the threads of self-disgust and wit, I toyed with tragic sonnets for relief. The night was hot. The cleft of Guadalin crammed air, weighed down with jasmine, hard to breathe, like musk in tall clay jars. I heard a skein of song. It rose. It swirled. It dipped and writhed. There, at my window, I was held, transfixed. It was the ancient song of blood and soil. That wailing voice was stinging, bitter - but was mixed with darker tremelos which fizzed and boiled, then sank again. It almost seemed the shock of that shrill voice, embodiment of pain, had stunned guitarist's hand. His rhythmic knock reminded me of coffins in the rain. Voluptuous and frightening at one time, mellifluous and jarring, fresh yet rotten, the music was both guttural and sublime: my puerile self-obsession was forgotten!