On a Corner in Cazorla

Every night there is:

the chatter, the natter, the talk

about things that do not matter

- at least to tourists driving by,

their mirrors folded meekly in,

lost in back streets

unmarked by satellite, cooling

down in the pueblo night.

The older, the bolder, the talk

about how the winters were colder

- at least to young men farming fields,

their muscles standing proudly out,

burned by strong winds

unmarked by tattooists, turning

brown in the Spanish light.

The crying, the sighing, the talk

about those who keep on dying

- at least for old men missing friends,

their fag-ends glowing, searing dreams

drawn in patterns,

unmarked by youngsters, walking

proud to the future bright.