The Viaduct of Madrid
Anita Haas, Madrid, Spain
The Viaduct of Madrid
The first time I saw you, illuminated
in your evening glory, I had lost my way. Running
up Toledo Street, hurrying
to meet a friend in Plaza Mayor, I rounded
the wrong corner and you commanded, “Stop!
Forget your silly worries! Look at me!”
Noble eagle, servile slave, you stretch your spine, crook
your elbows, bow your head. Your shoulders carry
a load of heedless traffic, pressing on you from one
set of fingers buried in the Moorish quarter
to the other, in opulent parks and palaces,
your wingspan - your yoke - bridging two worlds, and
– your back to the city - you look down
on crumbling walls that once protected the town,
on a park dedicated to its founder, an emir of Muslim Córdoba,
on travelers passing through you like a gate,
on the Segovia road, once a creek, the banks of which
housed the earliest settlers.
You shelter the homeless, watch helplessly
as the desperate leap from your shoulders, their ghosts
staring stunned at the spots where their bodies hit road.
Like a medieval fortress, stone steps race up
and down your slopes like beetles, resting on tree-shrouded
landings, where lovers tryst, and photographers snipe
at infinite angles, each frame bathed
in unique light, and cradled by arms
dressed in foliage.
War once crippled your mighty columns
Yet still you arch and gleam majestic
like a dancer, frozen in an ecstatic olé.