(26 July 1875 – 22 February 1939 / Seville)

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Guadarrama

Guadarrama, is it you, old friend,
mountains white and gray
that I used to see painted against the blue
those afternoons of the old days in Madrid?
Up your deep ravines
and past your bristling peaks
a thousand Guadarramas and a thousand suns
come riding with me, riding to your heart.

Submitted: Thursday, January 01, 2004
Edited: Thursday, December 01, 2011


Read poems about / on: friend, heart

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