Vuelta querida

So here again in the city of gold
Where I never wake up and I never grow old
And all the storks and swallows and sparrows and streets
Are just as detached and just as discreet
And the sunlight of centuries shines still on spires
Igniting the evening with rooftop fires
The colour of whiskey in a mute, sweating glass
With the sound of a silence which has learnt how to last...
These fires float and die above this Castilian plain -
An armada becalmed on a soft-shadowed main.