Granada
Here, a thin silk canopy,
avenues where orange blossoms bruise
under sun. We sit in the courtyard, distant
mountains gleaming behind your wasted face.
How long since your tongue could taste
iron in meltwater, your fingers deft
enough to pluck a pomegranate seed
without bursting? What I imagine
is vanishing—language
you will take beyond the peaks.
I should not blame silence
on the dead—nor ruin of pleasure—
but who else to blame?
For all the pain in this world, you say,
I love this life. Light traverses
your face, translucent.
We hold stillness in our hands, listen
to fountains speak.
źródło: Read A Little Poetry
10.09.2026