The city comes to snap the castellers
dressed red and white, black bands around their waists.
We’re here to watch them lose themselves for us
into a tower swaying in the square.
The marriage of the flute and of the drum
mark each new step and every motion up.
Atop, a child is raised by stranger’s hands
to raise four fingers up, four lines of blood,
and when the flag is waved, the tower drops
and bones and ligaments reclaim their selves.