Memorias De La Alhambra -

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

I walk where the myrtle holds its breath. Each arch, a drowsy eyelid; each column, a forgotten verse from the Quran. memorias de la alhambra

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 fountain does not ask time for permission. It keeps pouring its silver language over stones that once held the hem of sultanas. Inside the lions’ courtyard

No sultan remains, only the echo of a fountain learning to mourn in slow arpeggios.