ALTAIA Don’t Cry For Me
Her eyes are closed but sleep won’t come. Never mind her days are more like dreams lately. She’s left the window open and sheer white curtains play like tendrils in the last gusts of El Pampero. After he has swept the avenues and rustled the ripe jasmine groves spilling petals like a summer snow. After he has cooled the courtyards of the convertillos and fluttered the hems of the last two dancers. He moves in time to the sighs of the sun-drenched pavements and through the narrow corridors of San Telmo picking up all that sweat and sorrow and bittersweetness to kiss her cheek goodnight.