The shining globe pulsated, breathing life into the orchestra, and the bailaor (dancer) beat his way centre-stage, heels hammering the flamenco rhythm through the gardens of the Alhambra. He stopped, the audience inhaled, exhaled, and he was off again.
With the lights being dimmed, the scene changed as he found himself in a different world. He stopped again, this time a poet alone in New York City.
Summer evenings in Granada see the outdoor Teatro...
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