Andalusian Poems - Poems about Andalusian

Flowered patios, admired for their charm, Andalusian patios lovingly cared for. As new-born babies that Andalusian women take care of with gentleness, dedicating their time with the same devotion to as a baby who needs attention. Beauty with big eyes that shines in a blind world to old emotions. Patios of my Andalusia, you sow joy in front of the ones who feel love...

Continue reading...

Arabic Andalusian poem How delicious it is waking up from slumber as the heat slips away and listen to the sweet sound of the water in the garden's fountain Jamil Osman Hassan ...

Continue reading...

Arabic/Andalusian  I sit on my veranda the breeze is as soft as a child's good night kiss the town is well-lit but moonlight is better I think of Andalusian Arabic poems I tried to translate but failed  how is it possible to catch the ephemeral?     ...

Continue reading...

Below the wrought iron veranda, a guitar translated the dark. Orchids unrolled their purple tongues to arbor the moon. We had quarreled earlier, now I lowered my head in your lap. Someone was singing about the sea; the way the sea cries for the kiss of the shore, how the sand runs to be drowned. A romantic idea of love, a sweet melody, but we...

Continue reading...

It was cooler on the veranda, below us, a Spanish guitar translated twilight words. Orchids unrolled their purple tongues for the moon to drink upon. We had quarreled earlier, now I lowered my head in your lap. Somewhere, a girl was singing an old Andalusian song about the sea; the way the sea cries for the kiss of the shore, how the sand runs to be drowned...

Continue reading...

It was cooler on the veranda. Below us a guitar translated the dark. Orchids unrolled their purple tongues to arbor moonlight. We had quarreled earlier, now I lowered my head in your lap. Someone was singing about the sea; the way the sea cries for the kiss of the shore, how the sand runs to be drowned - we both understood. You went to lie...

Continue reading...

The Andalusian grapes are ripe this time of season. Bacchus pipes his sweet tune o'er the vineyards while soft breeze doth rustle more in trees where mission tolls its clanging chime, and natives wind their way up valley's climb to slopes where hoary twisted vines now bore large clusters; sunny place where rain won't pour and lessen growing grapes from being prime. Church...

Continue reading...