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SNOW, GUITAR, LORCA
by Peter Thabit Jones
The fingers relieve the guitar of its sorrow;
Outside, the snow is slowly melting:
Its coldness has lingered in our hearts for too long.
A frozen song is slowly melting.
In the cellar’s candled dark, you pour bottled wine;
Two girls hold hands but one is crying:
Have the crowd’s ghosts of smoke flung grey salt in her eyes?
The guitar says the world is crying.
The man utters the sad words that shadow our dreams:
The laments of Lorca are living.
Outside, the town that was wintered is darkening;
Each face is strained with its own living.
The empty bottles of wine are guards of dark glass;
The bar is closed and people leaving;
The ashtrays display their grey gardens of nightmares;
The man with the guitar is leaving.
We say our goodnights on a street crusted with snow;
The world of white has started fading;
Our cold fingers relieve our hearts of their sorrow;
The red wine’s warmth is slowly fading.
From The Lizard Catchers (Cross-Cultural Communications, 2006)