Guadalquivir

Here on this desert plain

the fields are dust,

strangled by wind,

burnt by the quicklime sun.

But where the river’s tongue

scoops out its channel deep

across the iron land

trees grow, and leaves

of vivid green

force back the baking air.

Fish and small birds

do strike with diamond mouths

the windows of the water,

while memories of song

and flowers flow

along the slender cables

of the mud.

So to the wires of love

do my limbs leap,

so does your finger draw

across my arid breast

torrents of melting snow

on threads of seed.