crowned by the hues of Spanish skies.

Terracotta rooftops bask in light, their warmth eternal, day or night,

whitewashed walls hold stories old, of sunlit shores and hearts of gold.

The sea, a lover just out of sight,

breathes its salt into the night.

Mountains cradle this town so near, guardians of dreams and whispers clear.

In Altea's streets, the echoes play,

of artists' musicians, a soul's ballet.

Each winding path, each weathered stone, a melody, a song unknown.

Oh, tranquil town where time stands still, you stir the heart, you bend the will.

Forever etched in twilight's glow,

Altea, your beauty softly flows.