Diaspora: Al-Andalus' Flame.

Out of the south Al-Andalus' flame,
A bitter reproach despite the rules of the game,
Moments left waiting the time be at hand,
Regret thee not the pilgramage made from thy land.

Hadrian's home, from here he came,
Sleepy Italica on a rustic plain,
Where down by the pit did the brave decend
Where in the depths animosity did ammend.

The Alcázar much written of you hast been,
A quite shady spot below the green,
Didst those afternoons there then past,
The weeping wail of a guitar 'till last.

There Calle Betis then was found,
That for which Hispalis is well renown'd,
The fast track'd beat, a popular sound,
Of clapping hands, feet stomping the ground!

Bones, like a crust, map the minutes,
Fingers fit through thy painful limits,
The nylon string'd heart pluck'd terribly,
Given up none to a gracious melody.

The dancing girls swing their way,
On you their eyes curl and play,
A dangerous game that is unavoidable, 

The procession moves on, 

The pace past applaudable!