This is the Basque:
all waving emerald hillside,
dotted with white horses and tanned cattle grazing,
terraced by stone farmhouses with white wooden windowpanes which
frame the proud armies of pine standing at attention for voluptuous, fertile valleys and
the rugged, steely grey of granite.
Highways tunnel through
from green on to blue,
passed shaggy sheep
and shallow riverbeds laced with marigolds.
In the distance, the mountains are dressed in a suggestive mist.
The locals speak in a unique tongue.
The beaches beckon.
Delicious pintxos line the countertops of tabernas.
As I walk along the river, I pass a girl with her pet rabbit on a leash.
So this is the Basque.
the glowing embers of Palestine
mapping out lost cities
gleaming like lit coal
the salt of the earth smiling upon us
away to the roman bath
to the infinte pools of our past
moonbathing among slippery strings of time
the rise and luxury of the orient
fools intoxicated by the
symphony of stars orchestrating the farce of the universe
seedless grapes feeding hefty apes
and Jerusalem an undying ember
with endless lovers to idolize each gesture