Margarita Engle
Each day I rise from the moss of dreams
and pass into a realm of melting asphalt
only to discover that one more fragrant almond orchard
has vanished, and the corner pasture is being paved.
Overnight, the valley of yesterday has turned
into this rumbling city where I am a stranger
learning to navigate by constellations
of whimsical streetlights
instead of the predictable limbs
of intertwined ancient Greek stories
about the human, equine and avian origins
of molten blue stars.
Viaje al centro de la tierra
Hernando Rico Sanchez