Cartagena

There’s something surely to be said

For gold,sugar and slaves

If they could build such walls as these,

Which,in 1741,so the guidebook informs me,

Held off an unprecedented armada

Of almost two hundred British ships.

I know I shouldn’t,but I find myself drawn

To the torture instruments

In the Museum of the Inquisition

And to gawp at the denunciation window

At horseback height outside,

Where anyone with a grudge

Could slip the name of a “heretic”

Through the iron grille.

Had I lived in those times,no doubt I myself

Should have been accused

Of a little witchcraft or blasphemy,

And well would I have deserved

My rather painful death.

Cream walls and cobalt balconies,

Mansions yellow,pink and red,

Lavender,sienna or tangerine,

Absorb me in their reverie.

On narrow streets loitering men

Ogle the passing beauties

Who float like runway models,

Half-madonna,half-whore.

In the mornings, the streets smell of dust,

In the afternoons, the salty trade winds blow

Through the palm fronds and ferns,

And the air smells damp and leafy.

From a rooftop I look out over

The pantile roofs,and the Caribbean,

And the courtyards,each with a fountain

Playing different music,

Why did I come here? I’m not sure,

Not sure of anything,

But perhaps I had to go somewhere.

And,as these people so wisely say,

“He who must die, must die in the dark,

Even though he sells candles.”