Song of Andalusia
rolling over hills
and mountains
to Granada,
breaking light of
madrugada
first in Seville,
and among
the solitary palms
of Algeciras.
Moonlit gutteral cry
deep from
belly of
of Gypsy, Arab, Jew,
a slow arrival from
Cordoba and Cadiz,
a fusion casting Spain,
a song that revives
the sleeping dead,
resounding deep throughout
the useless times,
over plains and night.
Strains of exile, pain,
longing and disgrace
are peering out from black
and lovely eyes
of lover’s face.
Somewhere Lorca
Is lurking in the moist
and creeping soil
lost in his duende,
tasting the
sweetened sadness
of the deep song
and now
inside it.
It no longer needs
to be inside him,
except in written words
on the white
and spread out spaces.
Hands like graceful
birds are flying round the fire
In the forgotten places.
The hungered Gypsys and
Gitanos dance
and sing deep down
from the well,
like flowing water
around the burning flames,
Proud heels are beating
into dust
and flattened earth,
waking passions of the dead .
Guitarras strum
and
soundless claps of hands
burn deep Into the palms
of Moorish lovers arms,
lost In the embrace
of black duende.

From “Free Verse in Useless Times ” by PWChaltas