Multicolored rooftops dot the rolling hills of Southern Spain.
Red upon brown upon orange upon yellow,
They patch together a quilt of sunburnt clay,
Interrupted only by groves of olives here and there.
Each rooftop flies a motley group of flags,
Held to their lines by a clothing pin
And taken down each day by tiny soldiers,
Proud sons and pretty daughters.
All day long the swallows swoop
Beneath the tiles to tend their homes;
The roofs are bare besides,
Until El Sol has slipped behind
The snowcapped peaks of the Sierra,
Making way for strings of sparkling lights
And the new life that blooms after dark.
The days and nights pass slowly
By the houses on the hills,
White beneath their rooftops,
Firm beneath their centuries of tradition.