Vuelvo a Madrid

Hold onto my hand,
you know I can't stand landings.
From up high I can see,
among a sea of fireflies,
my little neighborhood.
Rogue friends will be there, punctual,
closing the last bars.
We touch the ground.
Oh, girl, I squeezed your hand.

Lavapiés welcomes us,
fruit of the hookah,
explosion of color.
A woman prays and cries from a call center.
Who would think
to live so high up
without an elevator?
Damn suitcases.
I think of the woman.
I cry too.

I am lucky.
I always come back to Madrid.

I listen to messages:
old college buddies
had the spring party
and I, as always,
missed it.
City of my nights,
of the village wind,
of resistance,
of They Shall Not Pass,
what did you do in my absence?
Tell me you remembered me.

I open the balconies,
I kiss you, the hum of the washing machines
mixes with rhythms,
darbukas, bachatas, and incense.
Damn city, it's not your finest moment
and yet you're beautiful.
I must confess I missed you.
I grab the guitar
and sing for you.
How good it is to be home.
Back to Madrid.