Just beyond the leaves and white faces of the sea
the rugged steps invite shadows from 
the seventeenth century,
sketching the old war ships on a large canvas.
 
The past is perhaps out of memory, out of irony.
 
Whispers cluster around walls, thick bushes, history 
traces the number of attacks and resistances,
counting the cannon and gun shots.
 
A still air looms large over the palm groves 
as if a storm is coming in.
 
Invaders fill the dark chambers with wounds 
and scars during time,
how smooth the weave is,
and they do not erase and they never will.
 
Unknown lovers sit on the ruins, still scared of insects, 
red ants and spider, never forget to keep 
the bowl of laughter on the sea side overlooking
the arched pillars of the gateway.
 
The wild flowers trap in the fissures of the granite block
seabirds look grey, shaggy, and morose, 
beneath the grey clouds-
threatening to open the torrential downpour.
 
Old and young walkers chase the lands’ end
of sounds and colours, some throw pebbles
unmindfully on the messy foams and splashy waves.
 
I am taking notes minute by minute, hour by hour 
in the forward and backward direction,
giving my mind harmony and peace.
 
A morning of make-believe-
 
Like ancient ships, it is in search 
of hidden fountains of Agua Fresca!