Bridge
Prado is its name
a village without fame
save for its Roman bridge.
They said I was the first foreigner
to pass it over
in almost two thousand years.
A loira - the blond - she was
I mention her because
I fell for her
the village beauty
as fair as fair could be
but with a tragic history.
Five years before, on one weekend
as was the custom then
the blond travelled with her namorado, her boyfriend
to a party at a neighbouring place
where she could showcase
her beauty and her dance.
That night
there was a fight
between two men claiming her heart
the boy-friend would depart
not to be seen again
until his body was found floating
down the river running
under the Prado bridge.
I sometimes reflect upon the inequity
imposed on this young lady coping with the destiny
of one who had loved
at fifteen without a ring or a document
in a village where an adolescent
was not expected to make precedent.
I wanted to wipe the tears from her eyes
I wanted to bring back her smiles
alas there was nothing I could do
she could never love again
after this had happened - way back then.
Click to read in Spanish
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