A clock hangs above the door of the Mercado
And as the hour strikes, the jubilee begins.
Tiny doors open, and cabezudos glide in a circle:
Their exaggerated heads and frozen smiles consume the attention of all below.
A thin soundtrack plays in the background as children dance, uninhibited and ecstatic
To the rhythm of the cuckoo clock.
For a moment, all is synchronized.
No mistakes, no burdens. Just lightness and fantasy.