Barcelona / by Diane Arrington

Juan Fueyo 



Clinking of boots on the sun-bathed tiles,

Laughing ringing across the wide avenues,

Gaudi’s architecture looking after the skyline,

Welcoming visitors without asking names.



The shining sun playing on the faces

Of giggling children,

Racing each other,

Toward the beach.



The glistening and twinkling waves,

The smoldering sand

The sweet air,

The bold ocean’s dowry to the asphalt groom



From the coast to the streets,

The smell of fruits, fabric, and traffic,

Boutiques owners,

In their silent sanctuaries,

Patiently help tourists.



Others go to the Gothic quarter,

With its many spiraling towers like sentinels,

And mazes of narrow ways

Which had been patrolled by soldiers,

In the olden days.



Now ruled by street performers

And secluded parks,

In which birds chirp,

And elders sit,

Under the shade of trees,

Whose branches calmly swing,

Under the gentle breeze.

Contemplating the tourists? Not these words but thoughts.



The sun hides behind the dark ocean,

Tourists go back to their hotels which smell of luxurious soap,

The Spaniards who have been waiting for this moment,

Slip down to the cafés

To find a few hour’s peace, an hour’s rest

With a soccer game,

Without a buzzing fly for a pest.