Jorge Santos,
English
To the Father
It was not I you
forgot, pero los vivos –
My son,
their sons, todos los hijos,
Who will
push back through deserts of memory
To you,
our Adam, y nosotros, your Cains, your
Abels
Your mythology writ into our marrow, our
bone
Adentro nuestra sangre. Adentro mi
corazón.
The multitude will reach
back to one moment,
In which you begat us.
Tú eres quien nosotros somos,
We
are the latest of you. Y los
últimos.
We will find the first in
line, you, our Adam,
And end the red line that
keeps us in the eternal past,
I am all of
those sons, and, as you are eternally in me,
I
grow impatient for the Cains and Abels of my own undoing.
¤ ¤ ¤
In the brightness, mourn
I return,
forgotten.
My resolution shadowed by love
unblessed.
Nothing begins again as I return
into myself.
I reclaim my tattered
cares
Once exchanged for His scattered
caress.
A wind blows down
from the battlements,
And brings back my once
departed senses.
Without His gentle
hand
Across my wounds, across my
neck,
Restless, my regrets return
relentless.
I am left with a
hollow, barren chest.
Which from all I had
safe kept
For Him to crawl into and
rest.
But morning came, and out He
crept
Leaving an empty wind and an empty
nest.
Oh, mourning that
has found me.
Oh, mourning born of
dawn.
Oh, abandoned
mourning
Finds me lover sans
Beloved,
My hope for resurrection
gone.
There He
was,
Waiting in the promised
place,
Where He promised we would
stay.
The dark of night had blinded
me,
More than the light of day.
None will know of
our secret night,
As I will never know why He
did depart.
I was beheld by
none,
As I was held by
One,
Nor now, As I crawl back into my burning
heart.
I reenter my house
of unrest,
Dark and concealed at my
behest.
I ascend my secret
ladder,
And drape myself with a familiar
darkness,
Waiting for me inside my
breast.
On this bright
morning,
Smoldering with a night of passion
and ashes,
With the persistence of the
damned,
I reenter myself, unseen,
unheard,
To await another night of second
chances.
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