What the old know the young will not believe.
But the wiles of the old are not lost to the wise.
As a farmer busy with work seeing the fox
Does not call his dogs or take a gun
The old turn a blind eye and allow much.
It’s wise to see the good and ignore the rest.
The young ask, Has the world always been so crazy?
The old say, Not just, but nearly.
A cloud is white but unlike any other, a river
May change its course, color, vanish into sand
But it cannot change its nature.
So it is with us and with the world–
This was before water flowed or suns burned:
The young are rivers of change, the old
Are the shores of their ambition.
But what does that mean when near the Alameda
In the red and white Café Hercules
The clapping of men is like
The sound of rocks pushed by a river,
Men with hummingbird hands
And throats of desire are lost in Flamenco all afternoon?
The hours echo two thousand years
When puma pulse and fevers of sex
Beat in the legs of ladies twirling bright blue green and red dots
In the frill of their spectacular gowns, what does it mean?
No matter your age, tents full of music await you
Workers and women toss back sherry and shout
They dance for a week before August takes all
Too soon the summer heat, too quick the age of fatigue.
The old dance slowly into the arms of Love, the young
Oh how they dance with Life on ten feet, on hooves, on paws
On tables with claws they dance with Death in their hip pockets.
What does it mean, everything to everyone and nothing at all.
Note: In 2008, I visited Spain for 7 wonderful weeks during Holy Week (Semana Santa) and the April Fair (La Feria de Abril). I was amazed by what I saw and felt.