Inside the lions’ courtyard, shadows recite geometry. The moon, that old Christian spy, climbs the tiles and turns them into prayer rugs.
The guitar trembles — not from cold, but from memory: the water still knows the names of the disappeared. memorias de la alhambra
The fountain does not ask time for permission. It keeps pouring its silver language over stones that once held the hem of sultanas. Inside the lions’ courtyard, shadows recite geometry
And I, a traveler late to my own death, carry the Alhambra inside a drop of water — weightless, eternal, dying in each tremolo. Inside the lions’ courtyard
