A summer wind snaps the necks of the flags on the Alhambra tower. The old cantaora berates the dog looking for a cold shadow to die in. She berates him with ancient gitana songs covered in blisters. The dog's death gives off a cool breeze as murderous guitars recite alibis in Moorish alleys. The night's humidity makes unwanted passes at tourists and touches the women under their skirts. Unsentimental mopeds buzz in sexual stimulation. Moroccan street vendors carve the gyrating meat of defiant female stares. The Cathedral's church bells plead with the blood of hungry, roaming youth.

This is too much for me. I should leave for the olive groves outside Granada, where Lorca's bones and his eyes of cold silver cool the summer soil of inevitable revolution.

This plaza pulls so much shadow from your body, you lose your skin color. You are not black or white, just glowing visitor motion. This plaza is the newborn French tongue absorbing the droplet of champagne sprinkled by the doctor, spreading over all regions of pink. A homeless dog sniffs the tiles. It searches for the scent of the plaza's history, Inquisition fear and charging-bull adrenaline with hooves slipping over tiles. Crumpled napkins from calamari sandwiches sweeping along in night breeze were once the white flags of 1939 surrender. A flamenco guitar player tightens his strings in the East corner, ready to offer this plaza his first son.