Aromas of orange tree flowers drench the air. Seville is split open. It fills with the flow of spring. The blossoms explode. Sensuality glides and settles. The city seems careless to itself, but its arrogance does not want to savour its own decadence. It deploys a blind proud beauty. And the heat gives signs of force. The weather is still not hot, it controls itself, plays at caressing the spectacle, though it will soon reveal its true character. Holy week. They walk the gods in procession through the streets. Nobody knows, nor wants to know. To accept it is to become lost. While an artist sings his sorrow, a vagabond assumes that things are just like this, and a bohemian splashes his colors, the party makes the drama happy. Fair of April. The lights ignite. Happy dreamy moments are heard. A guitar strums. They all want to clap. And the girl dances, laughs and plays castanets. Verde que te quiero verde, Green I want you green. Todo es de color, Everything is colorful. And a stranger does not understand. Those who know do not want to realise. A genius is astonished by fearful hallucinations. A man cries out what it was, it might be… what it will be… and then he is baffled.
The sun exploits the street. Seville burns. The soil is hot. The air is dry. The bodies boil. The facades burst. The city is loved and hated. There is fear. Fear to look at itself. Demasiao, too much, this is demasiao. Everyone flees and hides from the lava. The heat rises like a volcano. And people wonder. They want to find themselves without understanding themselves. Sorrow suffocates. Seville wants to forget. And the future does not matter, does not exist.
And then, this day comes. It rains. A freshness promises to be. And it rains again. The sadness is soaked, it wants to dissolve in the water. And it rains again, because it always rains without warning.
The cold stalks. It advances towards its prey like a feline driven by instinct. And the water spatters. And then winter attacks and wants to freeze the night. It cannot. The city does not abandon itself. The cold fails and light win.

Seville suffers. It suffers in inconsiderate and irresponsible whirls. Malos tiempos para la lírica, Bad times for poetry, a lyricist says to me with discouraged tears. Bad times chiquillo, boy. And nobody wants to look. It is not heard. It is neither accepted nor considered. Respect was turning into absurd haughtiness. The bells toll in the archaic tower. And nobody hears anything, nobody wants to understand. Death is nearby, bothering the soul. The tragedy hides inside. Ignoring is easier. And the gypsies sing by the bonfire outside. Volando voy, volando vengo. Flying I go, flying I come…
The sun lights up again. The clouds scatter. A gentle breeze blows. The moon waits, calmly. Looking at everything while it opens until extended. Luna lunera, cascabelera.

Seville. Everything goes and everything stays. You better let it go. Come in and dance. Tomorrow is another day! Some churros with hot chocolate. Take this salmorejo today, and tomorrow we’ll have gazpacho. Feel the power of this land. Serve me a glass of manzanilla wine woman, because wine drowns sorrow! A few spiced olives, one of the pinchito meat brochette, a portion of serrano ham, a mollete sandwich of pringá, a tapa of tortilla and some fried fish direct from the sea. Horses. Bulls. Blood. Passion. The soul suffocates and hurts. And the red burns. Life flows, escapes, spreads. And the claps sound again and again. The rhythm deafens. The fingers play the strings. Pasa la vida… Life goes by…
And something is going on? Nothing is going on, boy. Viva Seville and olé. Demasiao, too much, this is just too much. Best thing in the entire world. Viva Triana, hurray.