Not born for courts and chains
and pendulums swinging up and down,
through granada’s royal town.
We softly, slowly dance,
listening for murmured murmurs.
Our vanity endows us
though neither foe nor friend allow us,
to hear the force of that murderous deed,
that made love bleed.
To know sometimes we run to madness,
in thoughtless throngs and empty noise.
Shall truth with fiction, our world of bloom
preserve what it first creates?