The stage is not red, but deep crimson
marked with memories etched into its face
Three chairs stand, green beneath grand portraits
evoking the power of those greats
If you look you can see how she stamps, the bailaor
where she stands, how she fills the stage
her rutted tracks command the corners
pentrating layers of paint and board
How many million hammer blows
made those grooves?
Before the middle chair is a basin
shallow on the right side, deeply scarred on the left
The cantaor stamps but does not stand there
except in wild moments, or to accept applause
On the right the guitarrista sits
the crimson is polished to a glossy shine
A cascade flows from the glowing corner
a plateau above the field of love and pain
Historical and timeless this flamenco
the story of a people in movement and song
expressions of tragedy and defiance that transport me
to whom they can never belong
Santa Cruz, Sevilla
16/12/09
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