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.