True flamenco comes only from Andalusia,
My Roma friends have a different kind of music,
A fierce unaccompanied cry into the unforgiving wind,
Into the rainy nights of England.
But then the gypsy is honoured on the hard streets of
Granada;
The duende stinging the soul as they clap and whirl,
Eyes glittering - dark - lit by Pluto`s fire.
In London the gypsy is outcast, an almost invisible
stranger,
A refugee from a thousand years of sorrow,
Christ`s cruel nails hammered through flesh and sinews.
But the songs of these English outcasts are also fierce
with duende,
The plight of the sword pieced bull is also in this music,
But there are no exhortations to Allah -
no thunder of heels on hard wood,
Just the voice of a solitary woman - crying into the rain.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter. August 14th. 2020.
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