The RAIN

I’m writing and I’m living in Spain,

And I’m saying things like,

I am so happy, and

Me voy al sobre.

And me voy a tomar una siesta.

I’m riding my bicycle in Spain

And it’s raining and it’s cold,

And I’m saying this is crazy.

I can’t believe I bike everywhere in the rain.

I don’t have fenders on my bicycle.

The thighs of my jeans are soaked,

I can see the water coming off my tires

And spinning splashes at me.

I keep riding.

I have to get to the University on time.

I have to get to my language lessons on time.

I have to get to the train station on time.

I have to get to the airport on time.

But wait,

I’m at the train station,

And I see a sign that says,

Tiempo no existe, no tengas prisa.

And I smile. And I laugh.

I keep walking but then I realize,

I’m in Spain and time doesn’t exist.

So I stop. 

And I go back to look at the sign.

My camera is packed deep in my bag,

But I take the time to unpack it.

I put the lens on. 

I zoom in on the sign.

I snap a picture. 

And I smile.

And I make it to the airport on time.

And I board the plane, and people

Aren’t speaking in Spanish anymore.

Italian now.  
And I listen.

And I love it. 

I love this time I have.

And like a dream, I think it doesn’t exist.

But the rain reminds me that it does.

España

El Cielo Espanola

Hay sonidos de español en todos los lugares.

Las sonidos son Dulces por las orejas.

Y mis orejas se comen las palabras

como se tienen un apetite grandísimo.

En los nublados la lluvia tiene agua mas rico.

Las sillas son españolas, y las sabanas

Y las estrellas. 

¿Pero quien soy yo?

Siento como un americano despedido.

Despedido en un mundo de las nublados

que cantan canciones de la noche.

Las lagrimas de los nublados no son lleno de vinagre, pero al contrario.

Son frio cuando tienes calor,

Y caliente cuando tienes frio.

Esto es porque yo soy en el momento

de una empieza fresco.

Una empieza que no voy a olvidar.

  

The Spanish Sky

There are Spanish sounds everywhere.

The sounds are Candy for the ears.

And my ears eat the words

like they have an enormous appetite.

The rain in the clouds is richer.

The seat cushions are spanish,

and the blankets, and the stars.

But who am I?

I feel like a lost American.

Lost in a world of the clouds

that sing songs of the night.

The tears of the clouds aren’t made of

vinager, but the contrary.

They are cold when you are hot

and hot when you’re chilled.

That is because I am in the momento

Of a fresh start.

A beginning that I am not going to forget.