progressing in the mist that fades away,
as early morning light, odors
string of Tejeringo
and fresh milk those goats
Colorao, my hero.
Gary Cooper in my sky,
with the brim of his hat casting a shadow
in his eyes.
In so high, lofty, Tajos
as smooth,
walking a sort of dandyism
wrapped in a dark velvet, with shiny
watch chain hanging from his pocket.
emerged from his silence as a miraculous cave
the voices of his words Malaga, Malaga
a mountain,
pregnant with dark and light.
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