She stood bent, beyond positions of declaration, but without breaking. The Mayten tree stands triumphantly close to the violet-blue of the sea. Woven, her green hair, like olive showers, lay upon mossy meadows. Dotted like white islet cloth, are the small villas that cover her hills, like a blanket, placed in the fresh scent of the sun. Catalonia calls to the ocean’s visitors in the valley. Like the agile weaver moves her long, delicate fingers, gently upon the loom, much like the legs of the heron. Where the fragrance of the Bougainvillea, with her petite florets, do not feel misplaced and welcome the visits of the lonely. Thousands of honeysuckle drifting within the air, passing to those who yearn for an embrace. Jade foliage weeps alongside the widower. As he bends beside her, his knees touch God’s earth, and he prays for La Madre de Las Desamparadas. His tears wiped…