Lucio is eaten away by loneliness. La Calahorra
is a house of dialogue, and birds
full of chattering trees, at midnight the slats are occupied.
Beyond the locked gates the ghosts of the murdered,
exiled and persecuted, slip though the shadows.
hyacinths grow through cracks streaming with blood.
Roll up your sleeve, show me
the number you escaped from, those I have fled.
I turn round, caught
in an intricate nightmare of whitewashed walls, twisting.
My silence broken by squeals of anguish.
I toss and turn in my keep, decisions I cannot deny.
Dragging into the cold light, huddled in hurling crowds,
all doors shut and barred. Hold your tongue.
the wreckage of lives. Memories, names,
this book of soldiers’ home snaps, this Talmud class
chilling eyes of vanished worlds.
Darkness falls on the Guadalquivir,
a woman’s dark hair and the river
half naked, half dry
runs through the rushes, over the river bed.
I sip rough red wine, black as venous blood,
stifling the long night. Words
behind reveal blind attitudes,
and silent spirits of life
this hill, those black shadows,
leaving footprints in the dust
of these hot burnt hills
blown by the only wind left.