Garcia Lorca made me do it...

I lay here in the stillness of the cool summer night, the cicadas in the trees just outside of my window rubbing together their leaves of gold, gloriously humming. The darkness comforts me in these late, quiet hours, as my mind drifts far, far away.

I dream of you, Granada, where we shall dance again beneath the blanket of the stars. Our soles on fire, yes, fire, from this dance.

I dream of you, Granada, where your rolling hills and illustrious mountains echo the names of every distant voice deeply within the heart. Do you hear it? My name beats twice within.

I dream of you, Granada, where the Cuevas swallow me whole, laying me to rest within their cool and reticent darkness. I dream in peace with you. Always with you.

I dream of you, Granada, where I run free amidst these Andalusian fields, the wind my great companion, the sun a fierce charm against my skin, clothed in the comfort of a cotton summer dress. I breathe you, your essence, my rapture.

I dream of you, Granada, where the waters, cool and cleansing, offer me their embrace. They envelope me in blue sands of silence, lulling my weary limbs as the poplars float past me. They carry me to the edge of the night, toward your balmy, fervent olive groves. Ah, such ambrosial treasures lie here!

I dream of you, Granada, blessing my blush lips with the blood of your vineyards. The taste of you in itself is God. My tongue trembles in prayer, caressing stony rosaries as my soul bends at the knee before you. I close my eyes.

I wake to find myself unremoved at all. Ah, Granada, what yearning in my swollen breast!

Oh, Granada, your Sierra calls me. In you alone do I find such sweet repose.