Juan Goytisolo Dies on a Ramadan Sunday in Marrakesh

His country was language,

His culture escritura,

In the frontiers

Of concrete imagination mask

He pursued his ‘identity.’

Bourgeoisie family had Cuban African slaves,

He went to the Cuban barrio

Of his invisible relatives,

Communion with them,

A history hidden of unlikely semblance,

Prose them into first novel.

What Virginia Loba said

You need a room and some money

To write

Idle, make mistakes, write re-write

Juan son of the bourgeois,

Rejected his nation

But not the money,

With flūs you can write,

Against falsity

Prejudice.

Subjective of Europe, Paris, the Americas,

Final Marrakesh, Maghreb

Marrakesh Old Medina foundation home,

A second Sevilla

Bronze color clay edifices all, 

Hazelnut blanket wraps horizon.

Community formed a family with friends

Their wives and the children

Flūs- money hangs him

Had a chef, chauffeur, handy man,

They all guised his creations,

Dates, almendras, couscous,

Queso Manchego,

Rioja wine

Afternoon in the labyrinth

Of his ancient palace,

Rooms, paintings y books,

Turkish music melodies passages,

Though Segovia, Falla

Granados ‘Spanish Dances,’

Strings weaving with chaabi rhythms

The minaret calls to prayer

Beckons all day long

Before the sleep rooms,

Wall of flower geometric tiles,

Rugs Berber floor or hang,

Tongues: Arabic, French, Spanish,

Basque,

Recitation of the Koran circles an agnostic,

Happy of the informant

Jinns who in and out dimensions,

Bring him notes,

Blend, he made a truce

With the chaos, the embroidery

Of the tiles, infinite circles octagons,

Squares, pentangos leap streets of energy,

Charge of the Plaza Fna,

Carretas, horses, donkeys, monkeys, snakes

On the floor looking at flute players,

Falcons on shoulders, diviners,

Pack of cards….destiny,

Barkers selling whatever,

Beggars, balloons float, children, women

Musk drifts along Plaza Fna,

Thieves every crevice scheme,

Shadows of swift hands,

The night is money, the tourists are

Opportunity salute.

Juan just goes back to his

Paragraphs

His thoughts open to the 

Paradox

Of his destiny

In this south of his language,

In this Africa of this planet

Water,

Fluid he writes invention

The laws of an escribano.

Inventing a self,

Escape from tyrant patriarchal

Episodes

No nation

But what Dante earth country

Claimed citizen of the world

Like fish in water.

Juan buried next to the tomb

Of Jean Genet,

Old friend and mentor.

In Larache town on the 

Mediterranean coast,

Garden of dancing Hesperides,

Oración of sunset,

Penetrates through marble

To tickle the disappearing sounds

Of Juan’s ears,

Becoming ether.

Larach of Spanish flavor

Arabesque hotel along the beach.

The waves against coastal land

Speech the prose dance

Repeat the observer

Observing waves of everlasting

Pages. P-rosa ever.