I say the heart of the city lives,
In her I will never die,
The dream of a carpenter builds
Merging with hopes
That I have for her:
Free I write my poetical
Amongst the flowers and demons,
The nonturnes of my heart
And the dawn of my fires,
Tell me the Alamo will be remembered,
Her beauty like a sword
Making my words bleed,
I am my city.
Dream of the desolates
From my cursed youth and poor
Words, the poet in my rich in life
My city is me.
The prostituted poor like an addict
Blowing a flute,
A cold stare, no food, no remorse,
The floor of anguish, a passionate girl.
We are one.
I am the streets,
Among the thieves and thugs
Who like you have dreams,
Among the rust and damp wooded
Homes, into the parks of my city,
Where Spanish missions still
Pray over the people,
My church,
My heart,
My city full of dreamers.
For San Anto