In Cordoba --

the old gypsy woman

sells

me romero

para haciendo caca -- red

flowers, vino rojo, blood

on

the streets, wandering

cobblestone

paths, una cana, por favor,

a glass of beer,

cool in the Andalusian dusk -- there,

Lorca is watching

us from the Guadalquivir, a

drowned Man

who Sensed his death, his body

cast en el rio,

his poems

clutched to his chest -- "Donde

esta Cordoba?”--

he asked -- "Where

is Cordoba?"

"Lejana y sola,"

came the reply, -- "Far away

and alone . . ." --

I am far from home, here in this Ancient place --

i feel at ease in these

streets that

snake through town

like whispers -- the

girls sneaking

down stone corridors

to surprise

their novios -- orange

trees in blossom

in small gardens

and arboretums -- There across

from the

muddy river, scrawled on the wall,

"Libertad para Prisioneros Politicos " -- "Liberty

for Political Prisoners" -- angles,

perches, Angels

posing as doves --

-- roofs

washed with

a Summer shower -- the

Gypsys' black habits

unsettling

in the town square -- What secrets

do they keep, these elders,

faces lined with

age, there by

la rana en la calavera? -- (the frog

on the skull) -- good luck

or bad I do not know;

-- Once, in Salamanca, a

Gypsy woman

asked if I would sleep with her -- When

I said no and gave her

quinientos She spit at me

and threw

the coin in my face --

I go

back to my little room

in Cordoba

and play the guitar, feeling

not so much alone

or lonely but

preocupado

and aware --

*