TRUE LIFE
Cordoba, Sparrows
to Karol Tarrzowski
All around the scent of orange blossoms
like a soft silk handkerchief;
here memory is stronger than time,
each day the cathedral must once more
seek refuge in the mosque.
Cordoba is this country's
black heart, the harsh judge
of invisible things, the judge of wrath
and joy, laughter and indignation.
Meanwhile tourists like divers
in wet suits stroll across the ocean's floor
seeking treasures, stirring unreal
clouds of dust beneath their feet.
And endless dusk lingers,
the endless May evening,
sparrows chatter loudly, shadows
return very slowly
to their dark apartments,
trees are seized by a light tremor,
even fear, as if they'd finally realized
that this is it, they have nowhere to go.
It might seem now
that a secret yearns to be revealed,
it shoots its hand up like the teacher's pet,
but we know this isn't possible.
Philosophers must choose their city,
only poets can live everywhere.
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