Reflections on Cuernavaca

The sun, filtering through winding passageways and flickering as the wings of invisible families glide over blistering roofs. The maze, circling and undulating over cobbles, magically guiding battered buses to their destinations while pastel hues of yellow and orange crack to show the generations of life this city has seen. The rush, a whirlpool of desires colliding, intertwining, combining again and again as the sickly sweet aroma of the butcher’s knife and the florists sheers dampens the skin like sweat. The citadel, stones upon stones, the pauper’s castle crowns the glory of old for musicians who never play polish their buttons and shine their shoes.

While the ravaged lover smolders, he watches this city. Wings mix with arms and legs, small feathers sticking to melting lime and mango ice cream. Where writer once composed, we slept and found refuge from the ravages of Montezuma. A flashing cacophony of life, mixing crumbling stone with dancing feet and olives reclining in empty glasses. This city is both alive and dead, its past gliding on the wind with the ash from the mountain that guards it, sticking to the endless miles of leafy green, red and orange. Each day is a rebirth, awaiting the opening of the Bird of Paradise while the night’s sneakers stub on cobble stones for sleep before starting again, returning to the city as it always does.