Dwarven Flea Market

Like a dragon quenching his thirst
it burns the water, hissing scream of steam;
the Hoffman steam polisher interrupts my thought
even while I shine the gleaming bracelet of gold.

In this windowless confine of the flea market, stay I must,
where the rays of sun and moon refuse to beam.
Even while those around me dream of jewelries bought,
I, a Tolkien's elf, lament amongst the dwarves of old.

Each jewelry booth, like a cave of a legend,
has a guardian dragon that fumes and hisses;
and in the Latin music shop,
beyond the row of Chinese porcelain figurines,
salsa beats the heart.