The guitar trembles — not from cold, but from memory: the water still knows the names of the disappeared.
The fountain does not ask time for permission. It keeps pouring its silver language over stones that once held the hem of sultanas.
Inside the lions’ courtyard, shadows recite geometry. The moon, that old Christian spy, climbs the tiles and turns them into prayer rugs.
No sultan remains, only the echo of a fountain learning to mourn in slow arpeggios.