Being it the gate of goodbyes and reunions,

It is for me a desert I get into;

Today, I feel no ‘hi’, I feel no ‘bye’.

 

Groups of friends, traveling families…

My wandering soul gets honest:

expects jealousy between the cloud and the Sun.

 

Exhausted I float among clouds and murmurs

Imprisoned in the hard seat,

volatile walls of my fantasy.

 

Barajas. Hogar dulce hogar. Good morning!

How are you, friends, how are you, family?

It’s winter and the sun shines like it used to.

 

Nougat and marzipan. My Ávila and my home.

The mountain range greets me, and so its wind by dancing:

Cool and pure, Wind, you fill me up as I pass through.

 

Of rain-fed and romanticism, today the snow bedecks

Your disheveled peaks. Your shade is longed for

By my memory, which goes to meet you, Ma’am.

 

I wrote this poem six years ago, during a trip from the United Kingdom to my hometown in Christmas. The then called Barajas airport (no it acquired names and a surname), seemed to me a suitable link between my United States and United Kingdom poems to the Spain ones… Although I intend to go back to write about other cities of Europe and America that are ‘resting in the inkwell’.

 

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Isabel Sánchez H.

"Cazadora de un resplandor etéreo. Vuela."