The dawn, spilling from the window pooled across the flamenco dancer’s angelic face like warm honey, as I tilt my head and glance at them, heels slamming, through the staccato juxtaposition of hands clapping, whips sashing, spicy beats become a musical instrument, an accentuation, a raw drive. Their eccentric twirling dresses spun to a beat as hot as summer’s blood making me think of summer, the Mediterranean bursting beyond my eyelids. My knees gave way beneath me as the hot, delicious flamenco music rips my soul, sending me to into a vivacious frenzy. Then the blood ritual ends, this is a glimpse into the heart of Andalucia. I wonder if I'll ever experience the core.
There was a fiery spirit to Andalucia, a sort of flame in its blood that vivaciously touched one’s heart, my chest had ached with longing, and banal fancies of forests, lunging mountains, poets, Granada and glorious fumes of architecture layered, within the seething blood of Andalucia.
Cool fountains murmured outside as fairies’ glorious finger tips ensnare dawn’s color dusted beauty. The smells, sense and sounds around me lights a brushfire in my blood, I close my eyes imagining my heart as a hot sun shining, burning through my veins..
What soul can watch a flamenco and not fill up his soul with arabesques?