Above Víznar

              <Siguiriya para Federico>

 

Over long shadows of the garden,

A thin blood-line of morning —

A cross on the mountains of Sierra de Alfaguara —

Far away, the purple trilling of one bird.

 

Without a confession, you follow a dead candle of moon,

Up through chalk balconies

wound with orange capsicum and geraniums —

Past el Fuente Grande and ecru walls in voices of sleep —

Past the dark squares of Spain.

 

Over the consuming night,

Stars in red jasper anointed a collapsing shadow.

Everywhere, silver bones of katsura trees rustled:

A muffled arc of steps ending in the still olive grove.

 

White carnations rippled in the dark

like a simple weave of burial linen —

Scepters of tall grass beat the air in rushing wings.

Far away, one bird pronounced your name.

 

In a night of falling camellias,

You will breathe cold air and taste nettles of lime.

You will kneel to a broken coda of guitars:

On the ridge,

A lunar wind will prance like a rider-less, chess-black horse.

 

Above Víznar, in the small hours,

A final image formed at your mouth:

Three girls with paper roses in the reddening esplanade:

A storm of bougainvillea and violet henna of dawn.

 

Beyond the summer, a rumor of messiahs will end.

A pieta of weeping acacias will bend

across an empty field.

Myrrh of blank heavens will open —

A withered zodiac will circle your head in final landscape of poems.

 

Over long shadows of the garden,

A thin blood-line of morning —

A cross on the mountains of Sierra de Alfaguara —

 

Far away, the faint pavane of one bird.