Sensations in Lavapiés

A tourist in my own city,
Spices from distant lands mix
with the smell of tapas and homemade fabada;
Voices of foreign languages blending
among the thick neighborhood accent,
Young people of a color, not acquired in the peninsula,
walk next to the elderly- those who have seen this neighborhood change,
from poor, to magazine trendy-
and they read the history of these streets, between the lines of their faces


Sweating, under the air conditioner, going up the few slanted streets,
and giving us back an autumn,
made up as much with its rain, as it is with its sun,
made up of sweaters, knitted in these camouflaged benches,
made up of the shoes sold in these humble stores;
The murmur of constant action,
the opening and closing of store-fronts, at siesta time, this is the true
city that never sleeps, the conglomeration of cultures,
the life that does not cease and the death that does not leave behind
the streetlights,
nor the ornamented windows,
today a bit mangled,
now opening their shutters to a Saturday, settling into evening
ready to walk without pause.