A Memory of Saudade

Early June, the streets of Seville are vacant in the choking heat.

Sitting outside a bar, I watch the waiter stack chairs and tables.

A sign, reading cheap montaditos, stands curbside like a tired pedestrian,

Advertising little reprieve for the dreams we always mistreat.

During siesta, summer sneaks in like a good-humored soiree.

Walking down by the river, I take a picture every now and then.

A few snapshots, recreating your journey, establish a sense of belonging.

How I had hoped romance would simply guide the way.

In Granada, rain falls lightly on the red fortress above.

Looking out across the gardens, I sense the morriña we share in silence.

A cool mist, calming the tourists, descends softly like an Alpine Swift.

Still the roses and carnations glow as if in love.

Closing time, a charming singer buys shots all around.

Holding on to our mojitos, we scan the comic-strip wallpaper.

Realizing how a simple moment, like a prelude to a kiss, is sipped away,

I invite conversation to drown out the guitar's lonely sound.

Still I hear a song that I can sing if you should leave.

Discovering Madrid, we adapt to the bustling haste.

Asking for souvenirs and pictures at the plaza,

Not a single gift could be misplaced.

Irresolute as we seem at the boarding gate,

Even the most quixotic of us may shed a tear.

Leaving this second home behind, an adulation almost innate,

So too do I forsake the secrecy kept out of fear.

Knowing of 15-M and the same old political game,

Now we absolve the Spanish romance, a fictional nonesuch.

Only leaving with memories will let love sustain.

Whether our worlds converge in Babel or a tender touch,

Somehow we will rejoice for the dream that is Spain.