Photo: Pixabay.com
wearied angels
looking round the only tavern
in this quaint old sleepy pueblo,
I see bleary silhouettes and
weary faces of frequenters,
evoking the sombre ambiance
Toulouse-Lautrec skilfully captured
in his sketches of sidelined souls
he so dearly loved to portray
looking at a few jaded frames,
bent postures and strong, calloused hands,
I see mostly working-class folks:
sodbusters, manual labourers;
skins excessively scorched and tanned,
toiling under Iberian sun;
I see footsore peregrinos,
having a humble pilgrim’s meal
with vino or a cerveza
looking at their pleasant conduct,
I recognise the pride and strength
of Castilian evergreen oaks;
I see hearts shining liquid gold
from mesa tops kissed by the sun;
I see cork oaks stripping their bark
to seal the season’s wine bounty
looking deeply into their souls,
behind the rustic outer wrap,
I see salt and smoked paprika;
people content with their fortune,
genuine, kind and unpretentious,
like the pot of vegetable soup
stewing happily in the hearth
where firewood gifted gentle coals
I am blessed to be here, right now
with angels near fringe of society;
this fills me with a sad rejoice,
knowing I am never coming back;
if I die now, bury me right here!
but my pilgrim soul will forge a path,
carrying on to who knows where?
and this town will travel with me,
safely carried deep in my heart
Kommentaar
Pragtig!!! Perfek beskryf