What you didn´t learn from the Jesuits
was how to coil the thread through the slits
and ignite my own face in your mirror
to better describe the lesson I´d hear
a pauper in the present, but tomorrow freer
in your smiling doctrine sound to our peers
but rotten and hollow to the new but past ears.
There are ruins now: the classrooms
the church now closer to nothing
the aula where the native kids still sing silence
the dead field cemetary blurred
by the Big Green´s encroachment
the small kitchen no longer in use
the empty plaza space where the noose was
laid around your padre neck,
but now you´re gone and still there
is all that memory´s wreck.
Some stupid how emits from the stones;
commands and comments, the seeds you´ve sown
and what wings have flown to call a mate,
my daring darling heart years less to satiate.
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