Sunday, 9 May 2010

Art is a lie that makes us realise truth

Strolling along these Spanish streets
In old Pollenca Town
The buildings are softly whispering





Infused in bricks and mortar
A myriad of doors
Unlock Mallorcan histories
Egyptians, Romans, Ottomans and Moors
Battles fought
Blood is shed
United together they buried their dead

Me…I sit atop the Calvario Steps
Easel and brush in hand
Watching the sinners climb to the top
From my vantage witness stand

Will they be atoned?

Well… that’s not for me to say
I just paint the pictures
I have no Masters in my life
That I am ordered to obey

From a distant echo
Float the familiar sounds of my beloved guitar
I follow my ears through the streets to my beloved Alhambra bar
There I sit and watch the world
As loves and lives unfold
I catch a whisper on the wind
Interwoven with catholic gold

I walk these streets in dead men’s feet bequeathed to me upon defeat
The price I pay I’m dammed to say will greet me on departure day
But until then my mind is free to wander through this fantasy . . .

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