NOW,
WHEN I HEAR THE "ARANJUEZ"*
Now,
when I hear the "Aranjuez",
a
midnight fountain
spills
its crystaldark ice
into
the streets of Granada.
Lit
by a halfmoon,
slanting
its gold against this winter Nevada,
I
hear the words of my dream.
Now,
when I hear the "Aranjuez",
I
smell the green scent
of
oranges we stole
from
the groves of a real castle in Spain.
Walking
in the haze of December,
I
hear the words of my dream.
Now,
when I hear the "Aranjuez",
the
broken steps to my life
wind
back through the dusk
And
I wake to the swaying cypress tree
which
lies between me and the song of my dreams.
Now,
when I hear the "Aranjuez",
I
hear the songs from my plain,
the
plain which, before, was less than a dream,
the
words of a dream which were less than a song -
Now,
the song of my dream which I hear in the hills of December,
the
real dream of such a winter as this,
now,
when I hear the "Aranjuez".
*The
"Concierto de Aranjuez", by JoaquĆn Rodrigo.
RW,
first draft, c.1967, second draft, 15.XII.92.
Copyright, Rory Winter 2013
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