Hand of sounds

May I remember the Jasmin. May I remember the long hours wandering and reading the walls. Pedro the King…

Not a travel poem, not a Souvenir, not a mystery. I  visited the Reales Alcázares and I lived there long hours.

I loved there and I asked there for answers to other poems.  The Patio was once my Theater, and once my dance-hall.

Inside I spoke on Tales, and for me, the Tale was narrated by my friends visiting me there. I was a Prince, I was an Emir.

The Moon as a new face. The book will be open. The Nature was built. The Heaven my Garden. Nùr ‘alà Nùr. Al-lâh guides whom He wants. Subhânà Al-lâh al-‘Azîz al-Habîb.

Inside the Reales Alcázares, in Sevilla (photo: someone else)

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Archivado bajo al-Andalus, anteUtopia, islam, Poetry, Urban Culture

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