when the spring winds of Diego come and leave magic in the air
and the wine of long ago whispers of deep and sorrowful tunes of an
old fiddler who played until he lost his way and heart in a forgotten war that books
no longer mention and then slip away silently
when the spring winds of Diego ride hard and bend the trees and
rattle glass until almost break reminding all of what could be and that
which never can return and be played on green ball fields or danced
in sad saloons any more
when the summer winds of Perez visit the hot alleys and make the
flies leave cafe tables but roast everything until it becomes a reddish
glow and curses are shouted and beer is never cold enough
and swimmers go far off shore and cobblers close early
when the fall winds of Fernando harvest more sand than wheat
warning of the hellish winters around the corner BUT on some mornings
those fall winds bring love along with the scurrying leaves and for years
old heads recall that moment when it arrived
but the spring winds of Diego always brush away the cold and forge
new promises to bind and new frontiers to walk
the end