bogotá is moody.
its skies mumble and groan with the weight 
of a high Andean storm. 

on the streets below,
furtive glances pass on grey sidewalks,
four inch heels clicking around the holes
never to be repaired. 

are you a mother, a daughter, a friend?
one hand over your bag,
you walk with purpose 
fear shielding your heart. 

men in pressed suits and fine leather shoes 
step around children digging 
through trash heaps for food,
cologne filling their dusty brown noses. 

the bus hawker resounds his tired call,
loud and vacuous across the platform
while desperation lurks nearby,
hiding in plain view in the place 
where resignation and hopelessness 
collide. 

and yet there is no warmth
like the blanket of the mid-day sun 
on its red tiled roofs,
no match for the tenderness 
with which its lush mountains prod 
through the misty morning clouds. 

was there ever a city so conflicted as this? 

vast, 
fierce in its impermeability,
tenaciously embracing the beautiful mess 
of love and pain and life
that surges within its core.