are we really the only living ones here tonight
under the old street lamps of ancient Teguise?
does this town exhaust herself after the bustle
of her Sunday market, taking a week of recovery?
as we pass by the green-painted wooden shutters
every one closed, locked, immaculate and still
Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe uplit
peaceful, calm: history sleeps in each of her stones
as quiet eyes view the lunar backdrop behind
the breezes stroke and stir the night geraniums
disturbing the fountain's catatonic water dance as
we continue through the empty cobbled streets, alone
and so to the only open bar we can find, searching for life
but the tables here are empty, cleared and vacant
Louis Armstrong sings to an absent crowd, the waitress waits
as we nurse our cañitas and olives, in half dream
half awake, half alive, half present, half under the spell of
the infectious beauty-sleep of the slumbering beautiful town
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