The door looks north. I prefer the heat recited by the French who stood up, an earlier generation, in Spain. I do not like the cold sings the Barbateño chorlitejo as it feeds its young babies in the dunes of the south. The steps of the door of the church of San Miguel, those that overlook the north, we had the guitar students to wait in the shade. The sun, the Andalusian would say, for the root and sadness. The nameless wind brings us sweet comp…
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The door looks north. I prefer the heat recited by the French who stood up, an earlier generation, in Spain. I do not like the cold sings the Barbateño chorlitejo as it feeds its young babies in the dunes of the south. The steps of the door of the church of San Miguel, those that overlook the north, we had the guitar students to wait in the shade. The sun, the Andalusian would say, for the root and sadness. The nameless wind brings us sweet comp…