I've built this city.

I remember it before it had roads and houses.

I remember laying the foundations of many,

as if it were only yesterday.

Dozens of us worked together.

First under the scorching sun,

then under a roof of our own making.

How we stood outside, wiping sweat,

waiting for the first glimpse

of whitewashed walls, finished and clean.

I remember those rooms,

and how the world looked from their windows.

That smell of fresh paint.

Removing the scaffolding one last time

before we handed the house over.

I remember the pride in the homeowner’s eyes.

His sly smile to his wife at the housewarming.

The noise of guests.

And the new clothes I was given —

quietly telling me not to come the next morning.

Sometimes, when I pass by those houses

built five decades ago,

now hidden behind taller trees,

I see some have changed colour.

Some façades altered.

I feel the urge to stop at the gate

and ask for the old owner.

About his wife, his children,

even the dog that lived there.

To know if he still lives there, or has passed.

If his children moved away,

or sold the house to strangers.

But something stops me.

But something stops me from within.

Perhaps I was trained not to get too close.

Never to mistake the houses

I lovingly built as mine.

Like a prostitute.

Like a prostitute, I was expected to lend my body for a fee.

To give my best, build with care,

treat each one as my own but never call it home.

I still see the city and its changing horizons.

At all the windows, walls, and roofs that have shifted around me.

I know these streets like someone who’s lived here all his life.

I’ve spent decades

building it, one house after another.

Yet I remain an outsider.

Always moving on,

From one shanty to the next.

Building roofs

under which others will belong,

without ever having one

to call my own.

~