Calzada 5 de Febrero, 1743

Your dust is pouring out
the way of slippery feet
in the November day of death.
Mexico dresses in colorful
complexions of the dusty road.
At the end of the street
lives a Sephardic Jewish family:
father, mother, and seven
sons and daughters in harmony.
They sell at the street
flowers, canas, and Calaveras
(sugar skulls) in the dusty road.
"Marchanta give me a bouquet of
flowers to take them to
the grave of my father."
Always to the cemetery at the
end of the dusty road.
The smell of the huipazochil (flower)
hits the passenger's nose
at the end of the dusty road.
Teardrops falling through my eyes
the longing for a past,
no more juderias from Spain,
no more ghettos in Arab lands,
no more inquisitions in Mexico,
only the view of the dusty road.

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