at the first hints of spring
I repeat the romantic, fateful journey
of george sand and chopin

their adventure started, it seems, 
the unromantic mass tourism
in the mediterranean

chopin gazes at me with a grave, already greenish face
half-bent over his coughing piano
not giving a damn about the splendor of the sun
and the dazzling gardens of the cartuxa 
in the island’s exuberant center 
in winter these harsh hills
must certainly be
like hell
however contemplative
the disciples of saint bruno might be

the natives didn’t like the couple
used to the tramontana’s whipping 
they saw their libertine ways
as a proof of
upcoming unlove

the woman had a manly name 
she smoked
and wrote throughout the night
while the man
whined and fingered the infinite piano 
their sons were not their sons
he looked like a woman
she looked like a man
none of this was easy to the poor people of majorca
forced into slavery and pig worshiping 

but what mostly troubled
majorcans
was the fiery yellow vest
of george-georgina