a patio of red tiles, cages of colored birds, bushes of aromatic
herbs, volcanoes of eternal white peaks. Extending through slopes,
valleys hills and chacras, picanterias full of chicha de jora.
Dressed in black, white, red, magenta, orange. Coming from Sunday
ferias with chicha morada, kamsha, papas a la huancaina. And where
all these turn into flat streets rolling to the ocean.
From its white foam, beach stones embracing the heat of its sun,
the tears of its garua. Coming from the corner of la picaronera.
The callejon next door. Coming from the little European chalet.
From gardens at La Diagonal. The ice-cream at D'onofrio’s
The benches of Central Park. Lined up trees guarding Alameda Pardol
The Church across the Park, Sunday walks. The British-Peruvian school.
The blue uniform, tunic, hat, white shirt, red tie, belt, ferocious exams.
Coming from the long awaited puberty The fright of the first kiss
Holding hands. Matinees at the Excelsior: the cowboy and the girl.
Death in the family. Chaos and pain. and life continues and poetry is
born, bursts out, multiplies, constant companion. Reminds me where I
come from and clears my way to where I’m going.
Camincha is a poet living in the San Francisco Bay Area.