TREES

The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing that stands in the way. Some see Nature all ridicule and deformity, and some scarce see Nature at all.

But to the eyes of the man of imagination, Nature is Imagination itself.
William Blake, The Letters, 1799

FLAMENCO

A Many, Lara, Pepe Luis y sus ninos, mis amigos de Granada.

A Federico Garcia Lorca.

Viva el Flamenco! Olé!!

ON THE ROAD

On a Trip to London
« How to feel a stranger in your own city? »

I was on my way again. I had arrived two days before from Andalucia and I could still feel the Spanish sun and the poems of Federico Garcia Lorca singing on my mind. This time I was going Northbound, to the « Great London » of Great Britain. Leaving my friends in Spain to meet my lover in England. I was sitting in the Eurostar enjoying the comfort of the business class like a child would be discovering a brand new game. I closed my eyes and the train was leaving slowly, pictures of the ugly northern Paris suburbs fading away. I grabbed a magazine, browsing the pages but my mind was somewhere else.
My lover and I had known each other for about three months. We had seen each other many times in Paris and we had always had a lovely time. However, I always found it confusing to feel like a stranger in my own city, sleeping in a hotel by the Eiffel Tower and speaking a foreign language in my homeland. Perhaps would I feel more comfortable there? I was about to enter his universe, or whatever he was ready to show me. I was going to open a new door and I just didn't know which one yet. I was wondering then if he was looking forward
to seeing me...


We were now passing under the sea and I was smiling. "There is always an end to a tunnel ", I thought. A French couple was talking besides me and I was not really listening to their conversation but the man suddenly said « les tunnels de nos jours.. ». Then I thought did he mean « tunnels nowadays »....or « the tunnels of our days »....? » I just didn't have a clue but I thought it was pretty and I would remember that. In front of me was an old man with a greyish beard and between two seats he kept on smiling at me. Any time he got the chance to catch my eyes, he would smile, his lips closed...

We were now out of the tunnel and here was a new country: England. There were teardrops on the window, maybe from a recent English rain on that train's last trip. I thought England is a country that cries a lot...
Finally arriving in London with an hour delay, my lover was there waiting for me .My heart was beating fast and I could feel the most pleasant feeling in the world: feeling at home in a strange land ....

July,2005.

Merry-Go-round or Merry not?
I make myself pretty, pretty
For the man I die to see
Black on my eyelashes to shine
And on my lips, a ruddy red line
But my lover's eyes just see
What doesnt' look right on me...

As I always feel tender, tender
A delicate kiss to him I offer,
But my lover's hand just tries
From his cheek, my buss to wipe.

I hear myself loving, loving,
But my heart 's silently crying
For of all sweet words it whispers
Only bitterness he remembers.

Merry-go-round or merry not?
Forget me with forget-me-nots...
Merry 's my heart but marry it not!

Merry-go-round where is your way?
To your wild horse I once was bound..
Are all carrousels just here to play
With soft foolish hearts around ?