Barcelona Y Yo

As men arrive, the city grows. As their feet grow, their heads shrink. As it grows, swollen with vanity, it forgets that beneath the asphalt lies the land of the ancestors. As it loses its measure, it fills with prisoners, homebound Robinsons, castaways in the midst of the bustle living small lives in small concrete worlds. That's how things are between Barcelona and me. A thousand perfumes and a thousand colors. Barcelona has a thousand faces. The one Cerdá dreamed of, the one Porcioles ruined, the one devoured by rats, the one flown over by pigeons, the one soaking in the beach, the one climbing the hills, the one burning on San Juan, the one that counts to dance, the one that turns its back on me and the one that gives me a hand. As I walk beneath the folds of its dress and run my finger over its wrinkles, the corners whistle to me that old song that only the moon, Barcelona, and I know. I love it naked and whole, slipping between the two rivers, with its fantasies and its scars. I love it with the enthusiasm of a recruit in love because it's alive and because my city complains. A thousand perfumes and a thousand colors. Barcelona has a thousand faces. The one Cerdá dreamed of, the one Porcioles ruined, the one devoured by rats, the one flown over by pigeons, the one soaking in the beach, the one climbing the hills, the one burning on San Juan, the one that counts to dance, the one that turns its back on me and the one that gives me a hand.