At the Street Albina
With synchronized voices and sense of humor,
the street vendor tries to sell me bananas, breads, and noti,
the voice is thrilling in twenty languages consecutively
when I was still there as a fool admiring those mule lips.
In smile; a storm of jingle bells open that face
resounds in the most dark corner of my heart,
and I tell to myself this is my town,
and this is my people.
As smile falls
in the curious path of waiting from this grown silly tourist,
I reply to her you do not recognize me?
I am your son who has come
to stay.
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