To Sue.
Guitar's vibrato leads
To beads in your hands,
Jade's white - the hopes of men,
The green - Marquez' wilderness streams in
And touches our hands connected by a string.
My soul's fall - with grace adjourned
By your stories - strolls through
Ancient Antigua's Holy Week.
The smells, the tastes, the lava's dying kiss
Are tales the silver masks will whisper as I sleep
With fairies of green caressing cheeks,
Which never downed a tall bebida.
Your tango - stories
Of the horse who fed on mango,
All day processions past the mellow verandas
And corn husks layered in carpets
To praise Him,
Whose cross speaks through your lips
And rests...
On worn beads within your box.