she remembers it well.
Not bright of the morning,
nor brilliance of the sun;
accented blue with a purple hue;
cool, comprised of silvery strands,
glistening just barely,
upon the cobbled streets
of an ancient brands.
Well-worn, treaded by thousands,
knights, maidens, peasants,
lovers, foes, the young and the old;
from the far gone past;
the present and the future unknown,
home to lost Kings and houses of God.
Quaint streets, formed of unearthly charm,
eerie lanes with a ghostly past,
welcomed the night with open arms.
She set out to discover the world,
but somewhere along the journey
broke apart, leaving pieces of herself.
Enraptured by the beauty
in words she could not recall,
forever ingrained, like a tattoo’s mark;
haunting her dreams,
leaving the doors ajar,
asking her to return,
to seek and reclaim her heart.
This poem is dedicated the beautiful Spanish town named Ávila. It was one of the many picturesque and historical towns I had the opportunity to travel to while I was living in Spain. This city was one the very few to have captured my heart.