(Photo by © Brandon Elijah Scott / Eye & Pen)
I sit along the ancient stone wall of the bustling plaza, with one leg draped on either side. The Alhambra looms overhead, casting a dull shadow over the stream below. The sun warms my back and the light breeze soothes its hot sting. My eyes flit from here and there, following the playful birds soaring and owning the skies. Oh, the skies. So beautiful, blinding lustrous blues with the occasional white splotch. The sounds of the river flowing below me mix wonderfully with the smooth picking of the woman's guitar. Two dogs sit at her feet, listening peacefully. One with various shades of black with orange brown, and the other is golden. They flick their tales at flies, and their eyes are shut, each lying on their sides, soaking up the sun.
Her song tells a solemn story. A sorrowful lament. Tattered gypsy clothing hangs loosely from her shoulders. She is wearing thick grey and brunette mats, which stream haphazardly from atop her head. Her eyes are closed and she sways, with her instrument upon her lap. The music lives, and breathes, as if it is within her bones and keeps tempo with the beat in her veins. Inspired, she plays. Inspired now was I, and I close my eyes. I begin to sway. She plays for no one, yet she plays to calm her soul.
Her song tells a solemn story. A sorrowful lament. Tattered gypsy clothing hangs loosely from her shoulders. She is wearing thick grey and brunette mats, which stream haphazardly from atop her head. Her eyes are closed and she sways, with her instrument upon her lap. The music lives, and breathes, as if it is within her bones and keeps tempo with the beat in her veins. Inspired, she plays. Inspired now was I, and I close my eyes. I begin to sway. She plays for no one, yet she plays to calm her soul.
Misjudged are some, and some are ignored by all. I can hear the passersby moving along in a fury, their cameras ready, in hand. Opening my eyes, I watch these tourist folk gawk at the statuesque stone structure above. They take their photos, in hopes of catching a glimpse of the ancient sites, but I knew that they did not truly see the wonder of this place. They look past the gypsy and I, missing the real sights. Stories being told and laments being shared. They lose sight, or perhaps, they never really knew. Forgetting how important it is to slow down. To breathe. And to be overcome. They tour from place to place, as fast as possible, seeing all they can, but not truly seeing. Enlightenment was not theirs today. But it is mine. And hers. I feel a strong connection of being united, truly akin, in one world.
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