City with roots
in every Castilian town,
but really in each kingdom that has stepped on the peninsula:
You grew up between strangers and metro caresses,
without ever missing the neighbor in the corner,
with her accent from the block, inviting you to
hearsay
meriendas
with views towards the mountain chain, sitting on the benches
where years ago others sat before you,
to write the world and narrate your land,
you infatuate all with your
cañas and
jamón,
and even more with stew of dawned winters,
bragging over majestic buildings
and celebratory fountains
Amplifying tourist smiles in
Gran Via and your heart fluttering
for
Retiro in the spring, secret hideaways, lung of your grandeur,
exhaling as you skate, watching grandparents
with their berets, without fearing friendship, holding hands
with childhood schools, branding each of us, like the singular doorway
of a home, hidden between stores and the memories that watch them
change owners and nationalities
Your markets clamor, in each borough of the city
between madrone trees, guiding in a straight line
your strolls,
between stones and crystal balconies,
with a light step, of youthful haste, taking you
to red plazas
where you close profound eyes
to the faraway universe that founded your bark
with its horses trotting and their masters
planting their strength and culture over our streets, spied
through a labyrinth that is neither ancient, nor modern
Relishing in your nights of revelry, by the moon and
sun of your terraces, the heat fleeing
your August and your sky
impregnated in blue- the capital's gift
opening its eternal doors to your questions
of infancy and wisdom
History between your hands, now with gloves
now with sweat,
with their mixed genes,
and their colored clothes, tailored to perfect fit,
Awaiting awake for the night, the morning,
and the unending energy
that breathes and argues all
with the intensity of feeling centre
hanging your leaves of Sunday parks
in this air that dries everything, except
the joyful will to live.
