Sleep that waltzes into foreign lands
dreams dipped; In bright swirling colors enveloped
eyes laced with heavy dark lashes, flutter
opening to behold an unfamiliar, yet intimate passageway
Here, the buildings resemble an unorganized crayon box
after an over-zealous kindergartener has been rearranging it
a world beautifully chaotic, & I blissfully lost in it
I wander the streets for hours
lost in the haze of culture shock
me, from the tiny city of Houma
lost in this overwhelmingly gigantic angelópolis
Its splendorous chapels coated in gold astound me
just as much as its graffiti & poor inhabitants
mystified & confused, I wander onward
in semi-circles, in loops, in figure eights
doing, the rapturous Puebla Waltz
until I wake again
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Wandering in an angelopolis in circles and dips and dance steps, like the flight of angels. If angels are creatures sent to foreign places to soar and swoop and gather information, you are the angel of this poem, no, in this poem. And you see the faded glory of an imperial past and the poverty of the mass of present people. North America - so flush; Central/South Americas, so destitute - why such discrepancy?