Long fin­gers and silver rings; that rhythm; that flight
Of fore­finger down a string; that tap of the fin­ger­tips
Against the golpeador — one of your legs is crossed over
The other and it all dis­ap­pears but for the music.
That slight frown on your brow as your fin­gers pick out the tune,
As you lose your­self and find your­self in notes woven
From loose threads; your long hair braided in con­cen­tra­tion.
You are cre­ated fresh in each per­cussive moment and you spin
Ima­ginary dan­cers away from your hands with a flourish.
That melody; this square; long fin­gers and silver rings that
Flash and scamper across frets, a note sings from the rosette
And your foot taps, caught up in the wild­ness of the song,
Untram­melled, untamed, fierce — a moment hangs silent then
Eyes snap and head tossed, that flight of the fin­ger­tips, unnamed
And finally still. Long fin­gers and silver rings lay down the guitar,
And the world returns, changed.