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
Andes Guardianes 