Ancient Kingdom

I
Autumn of cold nights, beating your blanket
over the plateau of Castilla,
waking up in the morning,
stretching your limbs, with the heat, cascading from this star,
that has not yet decided to leave, to that southern Sahara,
the brume filled with yawns is peeling off
the earth, between the flat valleys of the middle of this land.

II
Subtle curves seduce each visitor with the
paleness of the sun, always setting, softly,
caressing hills of ancient towns, that are now fields
and fields of blonde trees flaming, illuminating the end of the day,
of the year, of each era.

III
Toledo dyes itself in orange, on this day of saints,
waking up between the stone and the dust, to the city
of religions, now burning everything that was
believed, on the shore of the Tajo, overflowing thirst
under this sun, of the same God.