the spain I miss

backroads covered in dust

wild dogs eating roadside goat

café tabac bars dry doughnuts

hams hanging from the ceiling

swaying in the cigarette smoke

sweating into paper cups

strange faces with a soft smile

for the stranger guarded

yet open to what may come next

miles of olive trees

on ancient sculpted ground

black bulls standing ferociously

waiting for death in the afternoon

gold fields where the wheat has been

dry rivers to walk in the mornings

travelling for miles hoping to find

cold beers tapas into long evenings

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