Wail of a guitar
distressed sigh of a silk fan
on the banks of a river
edged with olive hurt and speechless. Crying
melody that blends with the white lilies
a broken dawn.
Wind that tears the silence of a land
blind and sterile, fixtures
stifles
in agony in the empty eyes of Calvary. Village
throttling in his twilight,
clinging to their gates, their lanterns
and insidious fears
dagger of death that permeates the village, clearing the olive groves. Knives
taciturn white silver, black blood
chest of the gypsy.
gasp of the azaleas, black shadows
widows
white and cold caves which arouse
mourning at dawn.
Bolts, death, Azahar, Spain. Harmonie Botella
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