In old towns roam old souls, freely flying safe from dying never needing, daily daring driving never lying, no need to flee, no roads to see, no place to go, no home to leave. Free to be and breathing free. Life's easy breeze with no eyes to see.
Along the narrow calles and caminos go, the songs of Luna, the stars of Granada and the rivers that rush down deep to meet the spinning wishes of giddy day-dreamers tripping and flicking coins of centimos, wading in over their heads again and again as they wash themselves down to the core of Cadiz and far out to sea.
Only the tears of a child can sing when you know you're being led, guided by the Hand of Fatima, so gentle and tender, mano-a-mano, through the streets of Sacromonte, so sacred and scarred but never beaten or scared, facing east and outwards, looking past the miradors of morning to last night's dawning to show the lights of Granada beginning to wake.
Burning at night with wanton white light, scalding desire, flying through fire, laughing and singing, skipping and kicking and twirling with mad dervish swirling, twisting and yearning, no longer a burden, firing free, floating true, blazing through black skies, comets without eyes, scream out with tails long, loving, azure.
Cast out your spells as my love bawls for more, rattle those dishes with the wafer-thin wishes, so precious and priceless, momumental and timeless in the presence of beauty, in your heart in your gardens, all year round all day long, up in the air as I am now, lost to a moment, chained to a lifetime, clawing at wild oceans of wanting, charging and slapping, coming at me with both hands clapping, cupped and snarling, silent and smiling... sweet sweet Andalucia, never, never tame me.
The Mirador de San Nicolas gives you the world to look at and more. At eye level stands the Alhambra Palace. Over its shoulders, the first snows of winter begin to settle over the Sierra Nevada. And in the valley that drops away between both lies the city of Granada, its streets are busy and oblivious to the weeping ghost of Boabdil, forever wrapped in the verse of García Lorca screaming out in fervour through the voice of Camarón high across the Etheric plane, lost beyond the ramblings of the Albacin within a single olive tree.
With the sound of sunbeams ringing in your ears clapping begins from nowhere, curling to elsewhere, raising in tiempo, shocking the eardrums. A mother tries to teach one of her children to dance. The child, dressed in pink, laughs and giggles before stooping to pat a dog who suns himself on the patterned stones beneath the stone crucifix. The casternets rattle again louder, sounding a desert's warning from another time. A very light breeze blows upon the skin, and lifts several dead leaves as it passes by. A guitarist begins to sing 'Soy Gitano' as the great silhouette of the Alhambra rises higher into the cypress trees obscuring the view.
We each belong to a brevity of eternity, melting into our own surroundings, resting in an oasis of our own journey. The Alhambra itself was once a thought, that was allowed to grow and become a legacy lasting almost 800 years. From the Paseo de los Tristes our souls can admire what one thought can create; in an instant understanding the divine whispers that speak to us each day. They tap, they knock, from the rock of Jaen to the shells of Cadiz, spinning, swirling, dripping the wrung out Muse from old ceilings and walls, thighs dancing high and singing girls call from inviting eyes and honest hearts. Goodbyes are like this and draw more than blood.
