Barcelona I Jo

As men arrive, the city grows. As their feet grow, their heads become small. As it grows, it forgets, inflated with vanity, that beneath the asphalt lies the land of ancestors. As it loses its size, it fills with prisoners, homebodies, castaways in the mess, living small lives in small concrete worlds. That's how things are between Barcelona and me. A thousand scents and a thousand colors. Barcelona has a thousand faces. The one dreamed by Cerdà, the one ruined by Porcioles, the one devoured by rats, the one flown by doves, the one soaking on the beach, the one climbing the hills, the one burning for Sant Joan, the one counting to dance, the one turning its back on me and the one holding my hand. As I walk under the folds of its dress and run my finger over its wrinkles, the corners whistle 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 passion of a enamored boy because it's alive and because my city complains. A thousand scents and a thousand colors. Barcelona has a thousand faces. The one dreamed by Cerdà, the one ruined by Porcioles, the one devoured by rats, the one flown by doves, the one soaking on the beach, the one climbing the hills, the one burning for Sant Joan, the one counting to dance, the one turning its back on me and the one holding my hand.