Andalusia

Bandana on his forehead, sweat that glistens,
reflecting warm but murky candlelight.
His face a grimace as he sings and listens,
the hands hug a guitar in mournful plight.

A sinuous, no, wanton splash of scarlet,
she glides onto the stage, dark color lips.
She's Carmen, and no caballero's harlot.
The castanets are hungry for her hips.

Percussion soon shakes loose your tired muscles,
exhausted from the day's unguided tour.
The galleries, the palaces, the castles.
You long to be her gypsy king, her Moor.

It's then you realize they are a pair.
And know a touch of anguish and despair.