bogotá
bogotá is moody.
its skies mumble and groan with the weight
of a high Andean storm.
on the streets below,
furtive glances pass on grey sidewalks,
four inch heels clicking around the holes
never to be repaired.
are you a mother, a daughter, a friend?
one hand over your bag,
you walk with purpose
fear shielding your heart.
men in pressed suits and fine leather shoes
step around children digging
through trash heaps for food,
cologne filling their dusty brown noses.
the bus hawker resounds his tired call,
loud and vacuous across the platform
while desperation lurks nearby,
hiding in plain view in the place
where resignation and hopelessness
collide.
and yet there is no warmth
like the blanket of the mid-day sun
on its red tiled roofs,
no match for the tenderness
with which its lush mountains prod
through the misty morning clouds.
was there ever a city so conflicted as this?
vast,
fierce in its impermeability,
tenaciously embracing the beautiful mess
of love and pain and life
that surges within its core.
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