we met in glass jars
on the Beagle in the Pacific
I'd never seen anything
like you before, your hair, your smile,
your huggable eyes, thrown together
by beards and tankards
grabbed from every sun, but
you reflected curves onto my glass
and maimed my stopper for oceans
now we sit on different shelves
but I can still hear you sing
in the darkened storages
and that's more or less
how it was between us
for hundreds
if not thousands
of years
“Córdoba, lejana y sola”
– F.G.Lorca
The eyes of the women from Córdoba
are olive green
and steps are shadows,
but you are going to Cádiz,
where the wind recognizes
as its only our longest street.
The trumpet plays in storages and ships depart at dusk.
And in Gr?nada, the orange pickers,
pick tears.
In Córdoba, women wear long black dresses
and hide their lips,
but you are going to Cádiz,
where every mother is at the pier and the contrabass
plays in storages. And at dusk leave the boats.
And in Gr?nada, the orange pickers,
pick tears.
In Córdoba, time falls asleep behind grids and the sun slides on rocks.
And in Granada come evening shadows.
I won’t be travelling to Cádiz.
These pyramids are storing mummies
These pyramids are storing age!