La Guitarra Espanola

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    La Guitarra Espanola

    Just a small taste of a tingle down my spine,
    I felt someone's stare...I looked and it was you.
    My goodness, your eyes seem to pierce every layer of my being
    What is your name? I wish I knew.

    I can't seem to look away,
    Mesmerized by the darkness of your eyes.
    They call to me, and my heart flutters,
    My body inundated as quickly as lightning fills the skies.

    A room full of people,
    In your presence becomes silent.
    The affect of your unwavering stare upon me,
    Is so gentle and soft, and yet so overwhelmingly violent.

    Just as the season of Easter,
    welcomes the singing of the locust,
    So does the space between you and I,
    Like the center of a calla lily, forever remains focused.

    The only sound I hear,
    Are the notes your fingers emulate.
    You and your song bring to this very place,
    mystery and an absolute beauty G-d did create.

    While the guitar in your arms sings it's poetry,
    Your lips without movement toy with my emotions,
    At the same time in this silence full of music,
    Within me, creates a sort of chaos and commotion.

    Was it fate that brought you and me to this place?
    Or was it your song that drew me here?
    Or could it be a sketch or a painting in G-d’s beautiful design?
    The same grace giving G-d, you and I both fear.

    The song is finished now,
    And the room is filled with a resonating ovation.
    But still our eyes are fixed upon one another.
    One question…What happens now in this crazy situation?

    Nada, Amigo mió.
    Nuestro destino esta acostado en la mano de Di-s.
    Yo me iré de aquí con la memoria que me distes.
    Tú nunca serás parte de mis olvidos.

    Le doy gracias a Di-s por este momento,
    Que tú y yo pudimos repartir juntos,
    Si Di-os quiere los volveremos ver.
    Tenemos que poner a El primero en estos asuntos.

    Adiós.

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    A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

    AcA’s Poems (3)

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