On Staring Into Lope de Vega

Here is empire and cheerful resignation

Unroll the lines and they would stretch past the stars

I feel the dry sun and cool breeze

I listen to the afternoon laughter and songs of the mujeres

I see the angry thrust of a lover’s sword cut the moon

This world has not vanished, but mutated

It aches inside the speckled books that shut it up

In climate controlled rooms

There are lost universes in Lope

So full of life but distant

Like the stories of ancestors that are no longer told

Their ghostly whispers float around and haunt us

In Spain, Mexico, Peru, Columbia…

There are Lope’s words glittering in the morning dew

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