In small provincial towns, whose stone buildings have orange hued roof tiles/large, loud conversations over coffee and cigarettes on the terrace of a café/next to a wide, slow-moving river that runs beneath bridges, a lone house at its edge and expansive lowlands/with grape vines climbing dusty cliffs, holding together stone and earth/where mountain and sea meet, made hazy in the distance by brine and sea air/where my soul expands, full of peace and joy/in the frozen moments of my childhood summers, changed and warped by time and age/where history meets present beneath pale blue skies and the shadows of the mountains/where the haunting calls of the sirens, echoing off the distant mountains, who live in the sea, and the bone deep ache for the mountains fall silent/in the shadows of the mountains, stretching to the edges of the sea/while eating mussels and drinking wine under a pure blue sky, the shellfish fresh and the wine refreshing/the ghost of my first love lingering at the edges of my mind/where time ceases to exist beyond the rising and setting of the sun/with the sea and the mountains colored by the sunrise and sunset/and the blood red full moons streaking across the sea are always breathtaking/with cicadas whirring away at night/where open air markets fill the streets every day; bright red tomatoes, multi-hued peppers, fragrant melons, dark avocados and eggplants; farm-fresh brown eggs; food trucks where the smells of mouth-watering food come from; dried salamis and sausages; rotisserie chickens, skin brown and crispy; bright, vibrant flowers and plants/where you can see all the constellations in the endless night sky, almost completely unaffected by the sodium glare of major cities.
Life forever begins and ends in the foothills of the Pyrenees, the place that has forever settled in my bones, where earth and sea meet the sky, with an eternal beauty, a place my soul will always long for.
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