The Bus terminal is overcrowded,

but I feel alone

The noise coming from old buses

it is multiplied by people chatting,

And silenced by the crunch of my ruffles.

 

I am sitting on the cold bench,

Smelling the black smoke:

Intoxicating for ones

And sweet-smelling for me,

For me, it is the smell of freedom

Freedom along with elastic chains,

but freedom, after all.

 

The woman next to me is my mom,

She sees everybody with observant eyes,

And I see everybody with supplicant eyes.

I am next to her, but I would like to be there.

There, where?

I am not sure,

Maybe between the group with black t-shirts,

Ripped jeans and dreams to be rock' stars,

And seat me in the last row of the bus,

No, they probably don't accept me.

 

Definitely, no between rose girls,

Those who spend their leisure afternoons,

listening to "Menudo" [1] and learning how to make cookies.

 

I would like to belong to the dream team,

Those who look like to be born with the white uniform,

but my short legs and my curvy body

are not done to the white uniform.

 

The claxon sounds,

It is time to get on the bus,

The black t-shirts' group gets into it first

I can hear the music of Nirvana

Coming from their headphones,

Then the dream team,

They don't speak between them,

They are focused,

At least is what they say.

I get into the bus with rose girls,

Wearing fuchsia shorts and a blue Walkman,

and hearing the poetry singed of Silvio Rodriguez[2],

heading to the unknown.

 

Years after while I write these words,

At last, I comprehend

the reason why I didn't belong to people wearing the white uniform.