Street Word

In the pores of night memory awakens,
roots of light sprout from the darkness.
The street is not stone, it is a voice that holds its breath,
and becomes a word beating among the steps.
Every step is a letter falling upon time,
the asphalt smells of yesterday and unsaid promises.
Memory germinates, slow, in the heart of darkness,
until it becomes a phrase that reflections hear.
The night opens the pores of hands names and images
sprout like flowers from the cracks in the pavement.
The street becomes a vocabulary of dreams and memories,
word that rises, telling places that do not die.
At dawn the word dresses itself in light and remains,
the germinated memory finds a home in language.
The city breathes in syllables that have roots in the present,
and every corner becomes a page ready to tell.