Plaza de España

A poem about when words aren't enough

How many like me have also had the nerve
To wrestle the beauty of this place onto a page,
To shackle perfection with words?
Words that fight among themselves like jealous
Children for time enough to truly express themselves
In a language only understood by perfection,
That they might play in time with
The impossible orchestra, weaved with sounds
Too beautiful to exist.
Better to take my place among the scenery
Than try to paint it with unknown colours.