I sang aloud
in a tongue so native; so proud; so old
that my eyes shook and my hands felt
the warmth of a sun, so Spaniard in its nature
that the air would smell of grass and kings.
And you came, with a lightened face
that told the world that you were here,
only here, to hear my voice. And your mouth
opened, and your ears rejoiced, and the sounds
of pure joy that spouted forth
were oh so lovely
that the blades of grass -- a thousand miles away--
rose high into the sky, with edges proud and sharp enough
to cut the throats of angels; of our fathers.
One hand grabbed my neck
The other walked my cheek,
and our eyes melted everything before us
except each other.
You became my visage
and I your personage
and we stared on into the vast
expanse of an almost infinite river that streched
the length of time it took for me to realize:
That these hands might blend
in a space so pure, confined, and black
as whiskey in a barrel
only in a dream.