Equipaje

Our baggage gives us away
and the doubt as we walk,
his small-town prudence,
my silence in Catalan.
The fog of Barcelona
like a modest tapestry.

And there we go, sleepy,
behind Gaudí's shadow.

The versions don't matter much,
the remnants of a place,
the well-known postcards,
the age of a cathedral,
the meticulous caress
of centuries of humidity.

And the gargoyles look at you,
they fly over the city.
The milestones of the road
with their ambiguous scar
are marking the fuselage,
peeling off the varnish.
The distance is an oasis,
a way to lie.

We visit museums
coveting souvenirs.