I'm waiting under a tree so large that a spreads like a lacy canopy overhead.
I'm waiting for a girl in a violet ruffled dress. Waiting with hundreds of others.
Suddenly, she's there, Rocio Marquez.
The pianist's eyes fill with tears, as he perfectly recites Garcia Lorca's poems in French for the audience.
But all eyes are on her. On her, Rocio Marquez. Her poise so striking, and her face magically lit.
Her voice holds a note, so fine, so far, so controlled that I can only wait... wait for her to breathe again. And when she does, it is filled with a sort of grace.
And then it is over.
In Fez, a city a thousand and more years old.
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