De La Alhambra | Memorias

And I, a traveler late to my own death, carry the Alhambra inside a drop of water — weightless, eternal, dying in each tremolo.

Inside the lions’ courtyard, shadows recite geometry. The moon, that old Christian spy, climbs the tiles and turns them into prayer rugs. memorias de la alhambra

I walk where the myrtle holds its breath. Each arch, a drowsy eyelid; each column, a forgotten verse from the Quran. And I, a traveler late to my own

The guitar trembles — not from cold, but from memory: the water still knows the names of the disappeared. shadows recite geometry. The moon