Goya, I’m understanding your mystery.
I see your country through your emotions.
You who said that there is no need for color,
only light and shade.
A man crossing a plaza in full sun
will have the crackle of sun around him,
the scintillation of green, yellow streaks, red vibration,
all the colors on his black suit, and still be immersed
in that great color: black contains all colors.
He will be alone, old, wearing a black coat.
Complex and emotional.
The browns and golds and muted reds,
dark unlit interiors, heavy slabs of wood;
those varnished red tavernas and tiendas
under Plaza Mayor; a drink with the nerve
to be called Sangria.
There’s never a standing being, a cat, a person,
a leaf, a lantern, even a fire, that doesn’t move
with its shadow. The shadow in Spain, for all its sun,