I’d like to share this poem with you. Written by Lola, with a little help from her lifetime friend Owen Davis who adopted her, his wife works with Greyhounds in Nood Belgium. (Photo by Jemimah Kunfeld)
LOLA’S POEM
Spain is the land of the heartless.
I don’t care about the mosque at Cordoba.
I don’t care any more about Pablo Casals.
Or what his cunning fingers did with the bow.
The white Alhambra, abounding in cool shade,
Singing fountains and sunlight,
Is a story of long ago.
Forget it.
But I cannot!
It’s a tale that tortures me with nostalgia,
Cuts me endlessly.
For it speaks of when the greyhound was nobility’s consort.
We sat on rugs, back then, heads held high.
We slept on silk.
Our bellies had food in them.
We drank pure water,
And walked with a light step, honoured and beloved.
All Granada spoke in our blood.
What happened?
Spain is the land of people
Who have forgotten they need hearts.
They cannot be moved by beauty.
There are worse things than beauty, surely.
Worse things than grace and trust.
I think, in other lands, this is known to be so.
Today, all we possess is the gift of hunger.
And then men who hate us fashion us nooses,
Snatch us up on ropes that cut us through.
The woods are no place of adventure.
Not for us.
We are left there, swinging on a branch,
To choke and die.
Why should that be?
What happened?
What happened to God?
They call His name often enough!
Is He missing?
Where are the angels?
We come to our saviours,
Those of us who can,
Dressed in bones, and limping.
Ready to love almost anyone.