Paradise?

Gates closed, eyes open - hands hidden. Ashen streets are lined with dust and despair, bottles and binkys, hustlers and the new they hustle. A weekend, yet there is no rest for the impoverished. Its life on the grind and they, them, these streets are always grinding. No gracias. Blanketed with a quilt sewn from the last strings of hope, no light can get through, though the people and this place ache for some rebirthing glow. Its been so, so long since any light has graced this place, its hard to imagine it so. But even as an import, I can see hardship cycling before me, even in the daytimes darkness. Barren people, young and old, wrapped in ponchos and weathered zapatos, blowing with the wind in which ever way the tourist flows. Hasting just to catch up to a lifetime of less than or not enough; food, chance, beauty...life can be a living chore, selling chiclets to the naivete boarding the last bus to los estados unidos. No gracias they attempt to politely mumble. while shooing off the young dealers. And while the language is not the same, countless thoughts echo in unison, There goes another one who cant stand to be here. Yes, here, but not 'here'. No gracias. Where babies cling to the backs of mothers, held on for life and limb by nothing more than a cinched blanket, breaking their spirt to cut you a break. Nimble hands crafted what will be inevitably be translated as a simple trinket vaguely obtained while on 'some vacation somewhere' instead of the lively hood and bread and butter it actually represents.
Not 'here' where bargaining is conversing and your nothing more than time wasting time if your hands dont come from hiding, revealing green el presidentes, of course.
No, never 'here', this place they call the 'cove of all saints' where unsaintly things occur and no one can spare bottled-only water to cleanse their hands...unless your willing to pay for it.
This place reeks of a forgotten beauty, shunned after her peak years and left to wrinkle and gray alone and in the dark.
Closing my eyes cant cover my ears and certainly cant bite my tongue - I see too much and am humbled once again from my veins of vanity and californication of reality. To be grateful and blessed; keen on what i have, in this moment and accepting of what may never be mine. Happiness cant be bought or sold on the side of the street - I know this.
As I board this bus to go back to my seemingly greener grass, one last glimpse breaks me. I lean in, heart and soul giving in, handing out a piece of what Ive been given.
Suddenly, unprompted?, I see some light peaking through the seams.