Ancient places

I’m drawn to ancient places. I’m not sure why. Maybe Olga Orozco captures the attraction in her poem Ballad of Forgotten Places.

My most beautiful hiding places,
places that best fit my soul’s deepest colors,
are made of all that others forgot.

And who else, if not I, is climbing the stairs towards those attics in the clouds
where the light, aflame, used to hum in the siesta’s honey,
who else will open again the big chest where the remains of an unhappy story lie,
sacrificed a thousand times only to fantasy, only to foam,
and try on the rags again
like those costumes of invincible heroes,
circle of fire that inflamed time’s scorpion?

My most beautiful hiding places are solitary sites where no one goes,
and where there are shadows that only come to life when I am the magician.