Holy Week in Seville
I went out from the Pearl of Andalucía to speak with
the olive trees (I know well their language). They
tell me that their roots are fertilized by the hombres
ricos with the blood of the campesinos pobres.
A thousand masked men carry the crucified Jesus
past the Plaza de Toros where the innocent bull waits
for the dance of the Matador - angered by the sun
at the sound of the trumpet the gypsies leave and go
to the Barrio de Triana, where they dance the
life-affirming flamenco puro with fierce duende.
At the hour of the bells, the bishop welcomes me
into the womb of darkness. The flowers of the
Passion wounds my heart with their fragrance, and the
acrid smoke that lingers from the Auto de Fe’s
of Roman Pope and Spanish King sickens my soul
Credo. Trasendiendo.
I speak with la pequeña madre negra who begs at
the Plaza Nueva (I know well her language). She
tells me that Garcia Lorca knew The Way of the Cross
“Look!”, she says, “This is where his blood splattered
the white doves as he fell between the fountains.”
We watch as the doves take shelter in the shadow
of the Cross – still frightened by the memory of the guns.