The Gods Drink from the Chalice of Spain

The Gods Drink from the Chalice of Spain. I know this.

When you see the rude mountains of Granada, or pass through the valleys of Vallapenia, you will know this.

There is nothing in the blind-drunk night; that is everything.

Dance upon the ridge, where the earth meets the galaxy, vast upon the ledge of the Albayzin;

And then tell me: "It does not exist."

Then, I will know you're not lying to me.

The fur-bearing Gypsy will pull you to her wound - and you will answer. She holds her fortune and it comes with a cost - one pining for the Duende that captures the soul.

She is but an echo from a cave, ringing through the wine-soaked valley, where music starts, just before the dawn.

And the faceless crowd swarms, squeezing the grapes for their glass.

Anticipation stirring in their hearts, like the early bird, wanting the worm, in a red field of poppies.

That terrible sheik of Lorca awakens the immutable eternity of all things that are about not to exist beyond the fleeting grandeur of the moment.