Poema // colaboración de Constanza Casacuberta, la encuentras en instagram como @costacasacuberta

 

I’m sorry your cathedral 

burnt down.

My nation burnt down, 

too.

 

The cathedral’s flames 

were accidental; your religion lit the 

match on mine.

 

I’m sorry the ancient 

oaks, one giant tree 

per beam, burned up with 

your ceiling.

 

Our ancient oaks are 

gone, too; gone 

to cattle pastures, 

cities, the engines of 

industry.

 

Those oaks were our 

pantries, held our winter’s survival 

food. Your people

 

paid my grandfather to 

cut down 

his inheritance. He did 

it for money.

 

to feed his children.

I’m sorry

your stained glass

melted, or turned

 

to soot; our rock

paintings of red,

black, yellow and white

were defaced

 

with pioneer’s names,

bullet holes, hammers

that hated any record of

our humanity.

 

We keep their locations

secret now.

I’m sorry you had to

kneel and pray,

 

sing songs in grief, in

shock. Our knees

remember that hard earth.

We cut

 

our hair, we painted our

faces with ash.

Then we got to our feet

and ran,

 

knowing the blessing of

our body

was the next holy place

in your sights.

 

Your altar and cross

still stand, awash

in the tears of priests.

Some of us still stand,

 

stained with the touch of 

a priest’s hands;

no truth, no

reconciliation, no balm

for our burns.

 

We’re sorry when anything

sacred goes up in smoke.

But you are the ones who

taught us –

 

some places are more

sacred than others.

 

Deborah A. Miranda

Sorry poem, 2019