Rooftop sunshine, windblown street scents
a 60 cent pomegranate and a wet rug underfoot

Warnings from strangers in a language that’s rusty
Wandering through a new city, calling it home.

Stuck on the roof until lunch is served,
A bag full of books and a head full of ideas.

I speak to myself in spanish to practice,
A monologue of my intentions here.

It ends: mi español es malo, este yo se
pero mi corazon es puro, ¿necesito explique?