Teruel

The aroma of black coffee starts my day,

every summer, the almond trees are
in bloom, the gardens become
a sanctuary of laughter, and the pigeons
are early in the square that once witnessed
Franco's public executions. A basket
filled with daises and figs is on display
outside the antique chocolate shop
where poor immigrants are walking,
thinking if death is the end of suffering.
Here life tastes like vintage wine, delicate
and nourishing, as if there are no scars
in this town tattooed with bullet holes,
remnants of that infamous civil war
the word isolation forces my lips
to open. Yet my afternoon walks
are often greeted by smiles
of pretty girls with emerald eyes
And there is the element of surprise,
of hues, artists never fail to capture,
on that water, flowing, in the withered
Gothic fountain.
--Simon Anton Nino Diego Baena