It's midnight and I ask myself

Robert, why is it that when you speak to me

The sea breeze,

The port of Cadiz

Run through me?

Why is it that when you speak to me

The aroma of the sea

Of towers in the arid towns ringing

In the afternoon

Of orange blossoms

Fluttering in your hair

Come to me?

Why is it that when you look at me

The tranquil sea of Huelva

Appears in your eyes?

Why is there spirit in your eyes

Spices in your fingers

And in your lips,

And the memory of centuries

In your ancient words?

Robert, every time I see you,

And you speak to me

You don't let me remain in exile here

So far

And it is as if I were still at home

I speak to you, I see you, I watch you

And I hear in your voice

The sparks of Andalucia,

The gossip of the old neighborhoods in Madrid,

The words of Caceres and Zaragoza

And La Rioja and La Coruna...

In your eyes

There is a blue horizon

The clarity of the sunrise in the North

And in the soft caresses

Of your fine and subtle hands:

Memories of the Mediterranean people.

Robert,

It's midnight,

In Kansas,

And you still carry with you,

Like a gift,

My home

And the spices and the humor

And the honey of a full life

I touch your amber forehead

I hear your breath in the breeze

I see your clean and white hands

The blonde and aristocratic beard

Your wheat hair

Your voice

Like the beads of a rosary

Made of petals perfumed

With exotic fragrances

And I am not far,

Robert,

Because you are here,

And in the ports of Huelva,

And in the clear sky of Granada

In the spices and the old wine,

In the children's laughter

Of my country so far away.

Robert,

You are here and have not gone,

And when I return,

When I go back,

I know that you will be

There waiting for me

Among the warm wine of the land,

Among the laughter and the flowers

Where memory, the essence of life, is reborn...

Gracias, Roberto

Updated February 9, 2001