Among the twisted lanes, Al-Andalus
Is home and rack for gypsies bred to fear
From years of heartless death and cruel abuse,
Their sorrows unappeased by loves that sear.
This wail and beat of passion without hope,
The stoic pain and dignity of songs
Vented to express a universal trope,
Defying the death that magnifies the wrongs.
A guitar whose silver frets ordain the pitch,
The shadows mass, the spruce and cypress weep.
He strops a razor on our nerves, with rich
Rough rasps, intense and brutal in their sweep.
A keening howl of shredded chords - this his
Pulsing cry - the blackened sounds - of that which IS.