Bolivar (Venezuela)

Lyrics

I remember the feel of a single note. Crisp. Folded once in a pocket. Enough for a coffee, maybe two arepas from the woman on the corner of Avenida Urdaneta. You'd smooth it out on the counter. She'd nod. A simple trade. A simple trust. That was... what, 2016? Feels like a different country now. A different century. But you don't count the Bolivar anymore. No, you don't count the Bolivar anymore. You bring out the kitchen scales, the ones for flour and sugar. You weigh the hope. You weigh the hunger. You pile the zeroes high and pray the needle moves. Saw a kid on a street in Maracaibo. He'd made a kite out of five-hundred-bolivar notes. It wouldn't fly. Too heavy. Saw a woman wipe grease from her fingers with the face of Simón Bolívar himself. She didn't even look. Just crumpled it up, tossed it in the gutter. Wallpaper in some houses. Little folded birds sold to tourists who don't understand. The presses ran all night, you could hear them hum. Printing ghosts. 'Cause you don't count the Bolivar anymore. No, you don't count the Bolivar anymore. You bring out the kitchen scales, the ones for flour and sugar. You weigh the hope. You weigh the hunger. You pile the zeroes high and pray the needle moves. An old man at the market, his hands shaking. He had a whole backpack full. A whole life's work, maybe. He poured it on the scale to buy a bag of rice. The vendor shook his head. Not enough. The old man didn't cry. He just started packing the notes back in his bag, one handful at a time. Like trying to put water back in a broken glass. The wind picks up on the Avenida. And the money just blows through the streets. Like dry leaves in November. No one even bends to pick it up. No one.