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I am in Spain,

Simmering in the Andalusian sunshine,

Alone on the vine-encrusted balcony

Drinking wine from a cold stone cup,

Pricking the cactus in its pot on purpose.

You are playing your guitar in the plaza below,

The only possible thing

That can make me descend,

And I do.

You see me, too,

Rest the strings,

The hallow body,

Against the river wall,

Take me up in your arms instead,

And say:

“Don’t you understand?

This is the part I was born to play.”

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