Fool’s Paradise

By Jorge Leiva

 

Bring me back to the dry land, 

the olea trees and the heat,

white grapes under feet,

men with skins getting tanned. 

 

Bring me back to the dim light,

bodegas where wine matures. 

No better sight.

No better cure.

 

To the quiet aged taverns,

marks made with white chalk.  

A world inside a timeless cavern

where the talk is joy.

 

For heaven is a glass of sherry, 

two green olives on a plate.

A smell I often find in Irish whisky,

which brings me home quicker

than any low cost flight.

 

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Cover photo by Nacho Domínguez Argenta on Unsplash