The Jew of Cordoba

Drumbeat in the dark, ever louder,

Dirge of the procession swaying down the narrow street...

Huge twisted golden serpent candelabra

Guard the velvet float,all candlesmoke and incense,

The Virgin,serene and cerulean,in the centre,

Lilies flaming all around her,

As she rides on the shoulders of her sweating devotees

And an old priest walks ahead,

Holding the gold crucifix high.


Café con leche and tostón for breakfast:

Olive oil from the Romans,

Sugar and cinnamon brought by the Moors.

Oh sweet scent of tiny white orange blossoms…

In the heart’s mihrab I turn to face

The Mecca of memory and yearning…

I prefer the impure, in all things.


In the only remaining synagogue,

I tour the white marble walls,so intricately carved,

Long plastered over after the building

Had been converted into a hospital; for hydrophobes.

Here,in this tiny space, the wretches

Screamed and writhed and begged God’s mercy.


On the shady patio,in a tiled mihrab,

Pink and yellow rose petals float

In a marble water basin;

Flowering gardenias and banana trees

Encircle the fountain,

And the only sounds

Are birds and water...

My greedy fingers reach for pistachio halva

Perfumed with essence of roses,

And plump sticky dates.