Platero and I [Intro: Simple, warm nylon guitar. A steady, walking rhythm.] (Verse 1) You're made of cotton and moon-silver, my Platero, no heavy bones to carry — just a soft and hairy grace. Only the hard, obsidian mirrors of your eyes, two crystal scarabs watching me with patience. I have mandarin oranges and grapes of amber hue — the season's sweet, and short, for you and me. When the path is easy, I ride along with you. We don't need a silver bit, or an ego as our guide — two synchronised witnesses where the river's running wide. (Verse 2) I lift my head from the poetry, you lift yours from the grass, a loop of recognition as the slow hours pass. I don't need to win you, or to hold you tight — a bodily fidelity that only presence knows. And I am most alone here, at your side, in the soft light, the way a great solitude turns luminous and grows. (Chorus) Platero, you and I, in a joyous part of Spain, in Andalusia where the sky dissolves in roses — an affection that refuses to be confined, and the world turns delicate in a reservoir of grace. Nature's beauty makes the fleeting hour eternal as it fades; not a prize for me to conquer, not a railing in the dark, just the tenderness of looking, leaves an indelible mark. (Verse 3) Our late-afternoon walk takes us past the wretched hut where the coal sacks pile up high; a customs man wants tribute, but we look him in the eye. I open up the knapsack and I show him what is there: white butterflies, just butterflies, let loose into the air. Food for the soul, going candid, going free. I remember how you brayed to save the birds in the grove for me— and this is what I promise, walking home as the pink light fades: I will keep you eternally dignified, a vow that I'll hold. (Pre-Bridge) [Instruments drop to a single, pulsing bass note] The meadow that we loved, and the grass that smelled sweet, held a secret, potent sting, a poison hidden in the breath of new green growth. And I found you fallen where the shadowed light framed a heavy stillness in the corner of your stall. (Bridge) [Clear, natural resonance. Steady and heavy with truth.] I sat with you, Platero, my hand against your cheek, and felt your gentle breath — not a whimper, not a bray, just a slow, quieting heart, and then your last breath. My eyes spilled over as agony arrived. I stayed for hours. Spoke softly, and made a vow: I won't leave you in the marsh, unloved and on your own. Beneath our beloved Corona pine, you'll watch the infinite sky. I'll bury you where the children play and the young girls learn to sew, beside the cheerful, serene life we came to know, where the goldfinches sing and my solitude brings you verses— a canopy of poetry and song, the special gift I can bring. (Verse 4) Now we are apart, but the rhythm stays alive, a loop I can still walk, a recognition that survives. I hear you braying somewhere in the late September breeze, and I pause to feel your presence. (Outro) [Vocal remains clear and direct as the music thins out] I still speak poetry to my loyal, stoic friend — A small silver donkey, obsidian eyes, and soft cotton, I ask, do you remember me? A perfect white butterfly I'd never seen, floats like a soul, from iris to iris, drifting — fluttering, not flying away. [End: a single nylon string, left to ring and decay]
