Holy Week in Seville

         The Negative Way

        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.