The Hills

really are alive amidst plump statues and loose canons. They're burning eyes, but you'd convince yourself it was the sun. I walked for 5 hours watching Papito; a barefoot boy with salt pepper hair. At times my eyes played tricks on me. Dried blood on tiled sidewalks. A pool - streams - upward. Running like el Rio Cauca from a satellite, across the musical bridge, and past the beating hearts of Medellin. Buses are alive, too. I was on one when reality struck. They bust their way through El Salvador, La Milagrosa, Buenos Aires while poets barely make it on those flimsy bikes. Streams becoming streamers of light. If you're not careful you may just be part of the tapestry. Y como es de hermoso vivir.