in the Sabatini Gardens,
rustic leaves on silvery-grey trees
wave shyly in the velvet breeze
of a February Madrid afternoon.
There are miniature mazes,
statues standing as if ghosts
in the quiet Monday park as I
recover from the late bars
of the bustling Puerta del Sol.
A girl's oblivious of splendour here
sitting alone as a single tear
rolls down dark enticing eyes.
I stroll out of the park
past the immense majestic palace
perched nobly on this hill
where snow-clad sierras kiss the horizon.
I feel somewhat insignificant,
the sun hides behind one of the cathedral spires
adorning it with a celestial glow
then I return to the gardens,
the young woman has departed,
an arid leaf descends, I watch it land
disintegrating like dreams in my hand.