His cante was
an ancient
tree.
An olive tree
that stood
since
Romans ruled Spain.
Since Moors
invaded.
Since ships laden
with gold
from
the New World
sailed upon
River
Ebro. This gnarled
tree‘s roots
penetrated
farther into Earth
than any
other
tree, penetrating as
far as
Hell
to draw up
the demons’
boiling
water. When my
father sang,
no
one pretended to
be angels
because
his songs compelled
demon blood
to
boil in all
of our
veins.
Why must I
be drawn
to
“dark beauty” instead
of being
like
those who hail
the dumb
moon
as if nothing
can cancel
it—
like sun or,
worse, eclipse
which
does not pretend
the opposite
is
now reality but
shows instead
how
darkness is zero.
