Between the palms and cactus figs
a man is opening his cafe.
The boxer on his morning jog
crossing footprints of night refugees
as he is closing in on
Africa on the horizon.
The azure sky.
The navy sea.
Children picking pretty stones
on the shores below the mountains.
Emerald pines form small forests
along the narrow road,
disappearing in the heat
like a black snake,
leading to the birthplace of the matador,
a headquarter of inquisition,
where I saw her on the wall,
in the small church
with the old lady at the door.
A red triangle holding her child,
a golden triangle
both inside rings of fire.
As night arrives
I have no problem
seeing them both coming to life.
The mother holding the child in front of her
like she wants to say:
Look at my precious child.
If you want to share a secret,
I am giving it away.
