Seventeen

Seventeen

Seventeen hard stones,
cold from the outside in.
Strained smiles
and heavy sadness.

Intelligent agony.
Caresses not void of love.
But love is feint
Love is distant.

Cupid´s blind arrow
The Virgin´s tear drop
Her son died alone
Time his only friend

Take pity away from your gaze
And let me live...

Lord and Gypsy

Pampa and park,

ombu and oak,

lord and gypsy,

lady and moor,

east  Atlantic,

west Atlantic,

chairman and carpenter,

seamstress and duke

…

mourn her.

And remember, together,

the strength of her voice.

Tango and Duende

dance for her.

A lover not of life,

but of the marrow of life.

She nourished not from the olive,

but from that which gives the olive breath.

The sands of the deserts have counted,

with great sadness, the hour of her passing.

Quiet corners of Andalucía sigh.

Murmurs, along ancient paths,

carry the news of her crossing.

Mists cling to the hillsides,

yearning for just a while longer

to consider her beauty.

Heiress of collective cultures.

Her vision nonpareil.

Can anyone replace her?

Rich in deep knowledge,

shy of feigning,

abundant in love.

Seeker of humanity.

Great and unmovable as a mountain summit.

Her soul carried the weight,

of the very nature of life.

Her eyes, deep pools of brilliant blue,

candles of humanity.

Now,

…

the valley of her silence

floods with the crystal waters

of her ancestral transparency,

and they remain, for each of us,

in our own due course,

to consider, with great care,

our own reflection.

From deep within the waters

will rise the comfort of her gaze,

urging us onwards.

And we will glimpse

her perpetual smile.

Manni Coe ©