Slow Hours

[alatos]

Slow Hours, v.2

Odor of cedar
billows down from the dusky needles
and mixes into the uncut grass.
I’ve worked hard in the sun.
But it is cool here in the shade.

So I fade into dreams,
dreams of nights on the sleepless coast,
in Málaga, city of orange trees and starlight,
of deep-eyed gypsy singers.
Málaga, where I first met you.

Again, I see you in the garden,
and hear the Andalusian music rising,
the castanets louder, faster,
racing to the rhythm of my heart.

Love was simple then,
sweet and blood-red
like the young garnacha
we poured and poured.

Those nights
we did not sleep,
but dreamed together,

dreamed of each-other
all the slow hours of the night.
That was all.








Slow Hours


Odor of cedar billows down from the dusky needles
and mixes with the scent of uncut grass.
I’ve worked hard in the sun.
But it is cool in the shade.
Who could resist sleep here?


So I fade into dreams,
dreams of nights on the sleepless coast,
in Málaga, where I first met you.
In Málaga, city of orange trees and starlight,
of deep-eyed gypsy singers.


Again, I see you in the garden,
and hear the Andalusian music rising,
the castanets louder, faster,
racing to the rhythm of my heart.


Love was simple, then,
sweet and blood-red
like the young garnacha
we poured and poured.


Those nights
we did not sleep,
but dreamed together,


dreamed of each-other
all the slow hours of the night.
That was all.