My street smells of jasmine, rose & azahar,
Peppered with voices, from both near & afar,
A place where petals dance & trees gaily sway,
And serenading birdsongs make folk want to stay.
A place, where under sunshine, kiddies play & tease,
Housewives chat in doorways & men sit under trees,
It´s a street where neighbours wave & have time of day,
To greet all & sundry, before merrily, going on their way.
A place laundry´s washed, & by Señora´s hands squeezed,
Hung in sunny patios, where it´s dried & freshly breezed,
It´s where, from open windows, aromas deliciously escape,
Of home-made soups, stews, baked bread & spiced cakes.
My street is a friendly place, belonging to dying lost past,
Of hopscotch, skipping & of time that seems to long last,
It´s the place of a helping hand & the ever friendly face,
It´s a street that you can´t compare, with any other place.