The childhood house lies in ruin,
no words left to say but I yell anyway,
"Say something to me.
Open my eyes that I might see?"
The faces of once before,
all of them pale with frightening wails,
they all look back at me.
The grieving mothers can
no longer feel the weight of the future anymore.
Their pain and their sadness have become
the soft music that puts me to sleep again.
I mourned with them for decades.
Now they pray to the wilted flowers beneath my feet, decaying with the past that noone can see but me.
When I was a kid, I use to wonder if I'm crazy. Now I wonder where in this cold spirit world can I get some peaceful sleep.
I think of her, pretending
she's listening while I'm by her grave.
"I sometimes can't follow you everywhere, every thought, every road you take or every decision you make." (I almost started to sing a song.)
I can only love from where I'm at.
For the finger of Guadalupe
points so lightly to the opposite
direction of where the wind is blowing
and the clockwork candle
that is so bright calmly says,
"Kind soul, the worst remains behind."
I ignore the lady placed next to my feet,
as well as the flicker of fainted stars in the sky
and said to the ground,
"Your mother grieves for you,
but she does not know where you are
and neither do I."
I rage quietly against the floors of despair,
I should have given up on love a long time ago,
for the finger still points back to the place
where all is fair in love and war.
I woke up without her
and still have nowhere else to go.
