In the shadows where the sun once kissed the land,
Lies the echo of a silence, cold and grand.
Beneath the olive trees, where memories weep,
Spanish death whispers in the night’s deep sleep.

The flamenco’s fire, now a ghost’s gentle sigh,
Dances with the stars in the Andalucian sky.
Each strum of the guitar, a mournful plea,
For the souls lost to time, in eternity.

History’s breath, wrapped in a cloak of night,
Tells tales of courage in the dying light.
Yet in the quiet, where shadows softly meet,
The Spanish death weaves its silent beat.

Through cobblestone streets, in the moon’s embrace,
Lingers the spirit of a forgotten race.
In whispered winds, the past gently calls,
As Spanish death dances through ancient halls.