And threads of thoughts of windy days
Rushed by like the rivers of Sierra de Ronda.
And the heft and touch of the silken duvet
Slipped across his body like the soft waves of Estepona.
And into his reverie the ringing telephone
Floated like a minor chord from a flamenco guitar.
And the dreamy grin of the old pepper merchant
Dissolved like tapas in the mouth of a hungry eater.
And the sound of his hoarsely whispered “Ola?”
Crept across his chin like a shovel scraping tar.
And the everyday cares of the little village
Wrapped up his dreams like garbage and threw them afar.