All the tears used to set the bricks on the buildings
the statues on the ramblas have seen
through the corners of their eyes
from the rush of the morning
to the weariness upon night falling
in the backstreets
the warmth of stew
the glow of orange stained glass windows
the youthful calls of art students
in second hand clothes
the statues rub off the days toil
and spend some of its spoils
food
and the lonesome entertainment
of watching other people who have other people
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem