I'm Satisfied. I Am Progressively Making My

Seville Is A Tower Full Of Fine Archers.... Under The Arch Of The Sky, Across The Clear Plain, She Shoots The Constant Arrow Of Her River.

Not For A Moment, Beautiful Aged Walt Whitman, Have I Failed To See Your Beard Full Of Butterflies.

The Gitano Is The Most Distinguished, Profound And Aristocratic Element In My Country, The One That Most Represents Its Way Of Being And Best Preserves The Fire, The Blood And The Alphabet Of Andalusian And Universal Truth.

I Sing Your Restless Longing For The Statue, Your Fear Of The Feelings That Await You In The Street. I Sing The Small Sea Siren Who Sings To You, Riding Her Bicycle Of Corals And Conches. But Above All I Sing A Common Thought That Joins Us In The Dark And Golden Hours. The Light That Blinds Our Eyes Is Not Art. Rather It Is Love, Friendship, Crossed Swords.

With Their Souls Of Patent Leather, They Come Down The Road. Hunched And Nocturnal, Where They Breathe They Impose, Silence Of Dark Rubber, And Fear Of Fine Sand.