Love and ghosts So were walking a bit faster now weve crossed Charles Bridge. The streets on this side of the river are pleasingly bereft of tourists, cabs and vendors - and Im telling you about this Spanish village I once came upon: a ghost town in the mountains, close to France, where goats and crawling bushes fought a stubborn war amidst the revenants of broken plates and rusted pots and pans out in the yards where the seasons only other crops were crumbling walls and broken glass and scattered piles of rotted wood - and you turn around. Your hand is almost white against your long dark hair. You look at me and “Did you see that woman?” you half whisper, half demand to know - and yes I did and that was why I tried to get you out of here and take us back in time to that old Spanish town, its gentle cast of goats and ghosts, where there are no beggars holding children with arms as thin and eyes as wide as all the hunger, all the wars that ravished Europe, from that oldest bullish rape to the fires that rained on Sarajevo and the hidden graves of Bosnia - and all that I can do is hold you till your body has stopped shaking and tell you that I love you and stroke your hair and take your hand and safely lead us home again.
Posted on: Sat, 19 Jul 2014 22:00:05 +0000
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