When Madrid Awakes

Its streets bathing
after the long and endless night,
The energy still slightly roaring,
in the trucks that bring our daily bread,
the fish from the north, the vegetables from the south;
the weekend razing, with the sun relieving
the tenuous streetlights,
contemplating for centuries the grey cement
and the colors, being reborn, each dawn
in an unending cycle, of empty sidewalks, countless going to sleep,
Except the city, never somnolent, but
when Madrid
lives the ephemeral silence,
of its indolent mornings.