A poem depicting a woman, native of Ibiza. Part of the text has also appeared in my second novel, changed into a prose setting, further elaborated.

Strolling through the dry countryside
thorny flowers scratching my feet
the heat, almost unbearable,
the Mediterranean sun beats on my back.

In the shade of Pomegranate tree
stands a woman,
proud, dressed all in black.
Her features unclear
soften by the veil of mystery,
her linen shoes seems so soft
against the rugged terrain.

 My eyes wander
Following
the long lines of her rough black dress.
Her tired deep eyes
stare at me from the shade
crafted by the edge of large black hat.

 Her face is the map of humanity
deep wrinkles the ridges and valleys
blue veins underneath her skin,
the rivers and streams of life.
Thick lines circling her eyes
remind me of the eyes of sailors,
the eyes seeing over vast distances,
the eyes of reality
absent of any concrete color
pressed together, dry from the sun.

For the first time I see a woman
like this, so brute, so ancient
as if the time froze in its path.
 
She looks at me, emotionless
as if I was observing
an old photograph.
So unreal, so mysterious.

A magnificent woman,
unchanged for centuries
standing there so proud
the mother of a nation.