Los Burladores Poem by Dana Lamb

Estas son las horas mias
~Tirso

Determined as psychopaths
With their deep rich voices
Magnetic eyes
These beautiful black panthers
Tread softly, softly
As they go on another nightly prowl
To playfully steal the hours
They know the game-
Each turn, each twist
Each word, each smile
Each fire in your eyes
It all has become quite arithmetical
Their animal presence
Envelops you in a murky cloud
You stumble and lose your way
In the crucible of your uncertain dreams
Unaware what deadly creatures
Might inhabit this
Unchartered territory
Or in a hall full of shining mirrors
All of them reflecting you-
The beautiful one
But once enjoyed-
You leave a bitter taste in their mouths
So they go on stealing the hours
Mad, enchanted, bitter-sweet hours
But not yours anymore