Another stone has fallen
one beat of a heart which once held the prayers of man up to the ears of God
now returned to the dust from which it came
The mountains, they still stand
the sun, it shines
but how can we speak, smile, laugh with our mouths so full of clouds?
Dear God our hands are soar throats
how can we keep them held together any longer?
Though my bones are from the east, my tongue is from the west.
I didn't know what tears were
until the memories of my ancestors came blowing through the curls of my hair
a storm roaring in my direction from beyond the forgotten mountains
where my mothers and my mothers mothers and my mothers mothers mothers danced like angels
Now I find myself sitting next to devils
who's grandfathers filled their stomachs with the screams of babies
I watch as they pick the remaining bits of flesh from their teeth
of the bodies of cousins that I will never have
paintings that will never be painted
and songs that will never be sung
but they don't even know that they are devils because the truth has been drowned in lies
and the fingers of the ignorant come poining at me like spears when I open my mouth to speak about it
Why why why why why why why?
I would rather stab myself with this word than bleed anymore into this incomprehensible mess
of arguments and statements that do nothing more than flail around and around like bats
bouncing blindly off the walls, unable to find the exit to the cave that they are lost in
The stones will continue to fall, one and another and again
but once fallen will they continue to glow as they have
with the glorious memory of psalms, prayers, hopes, and fears that once resonated within them?
will anything remember these things that have passed once the last one falls?
or when a dog dies is it simply gone forever?
But did you know that sadness could be beautiful?
that the melodies that emerge from the millenniums of cold howling lostness
breathe with a color so real
that oceans rise from the dust and dry earth
and honey leaps from the flames
to dance through the valleys with the butterflies
and float with the diamond like particles of dust
among the echos that reverberate still within these ancient temples
with walls of stone tattood with symbols that tell a story no words will ever be enough to tell
Those who know no pain know no beauty
May we find the faith to keep our candles lit
if for no other reason than in hope that the next God will bless those with gold in their hearts
and not in their pockets
1/16, © Babo’s House