Before I reached the Nasrid Palaces
Black rain lashed the streets of Granada,
I went there to forget.
The smell of Ducados lifted me,
into bars strewn with shreds of paper,
I thought it exotic,
but was told it was filth.
Rancid butter collected flies on a counter top,
the dissonant fan clicked overhead.
A bullfighter, triumphant on TV,
Riding shoulder high,
held aloft the dripping trophies,
red stained the gold,
then they dragged the corpse away,
and raked the sand to begin again.