20 lutego 2012
Drift
I think about how much I miss you
on my solitary walks from Lavapíes
to Sol to Malasaña,
Along the river through Imperíal
to La Latina to El Palacio Real.
The sullen eyes of Africa
with their unspoken epitaphs
of rape death and fatigue
from the Sahara follow
the path I take,
the path I take everyday.
I am not Spanish
and never will be,
still I tremble with fear
when the rythmic drumbeats
echo down my waist.
Chants of U.S.A, U.S.A, U.S.A
are heard in the distance
squeezing the small rock
in the center of my stomach.
My hands are cleansed
but the scent of blood lingers on
from a war not that long ago,
but I feel no remorse
nor deny it.
The frigid lake effect chill
does not run through the white of my bones,
I am not made of that tough blue collar stuff
because the dry spanish breeze is too much
for me to wait at the bus stop.
Here life is not real
with nights that live on
past the breaking dawn,
melodic tears of the Roma
recited by imposters,
and rusted brick buldings
with bar after bar after bar.
Ponce De León searched for
the fountain of youth
when it was always
in the old world
although,
youth is very different
from never aging.
I have fallen out of love
with Madrid, only because
I have fallen in love with
you, and just you.
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