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The marauding wind travels at speed
Down the steep mountains
Whistling over the bare, desolate landscape
Now unprotected, open to Nature’s fury.
It was repelled for centuries by the tall trees
At once majestic, rising to the skies
A formidable barrier, a bulwark against the elements
Alas no more; the wind unchecked
Rushing at full velocity, sweeping everything in its path.
The town is dying, its historical immunity
Its near impregnable defence, the certainty of survival,
A distant memory, a mythical story
Recounted over generations, recited to new arrivals.
In the throes of death, the padres are whispering prayers.
Named El Pequeno Acre De Dios,
The Camelot on its outskirts, everything that grew
All vestiges of life, gradually erased and razed,
Desecrated, decimated and destroyed.
Expectant mothers do not enter here
Children do not play there;
Young men stop at its border
Animals sense fear, they won’t go near.
The only visitors are the elders
Defiant, reciting hymns as they await the hour.
They have seen and read too much;
It is too late for them to care.
But the town won’t survive
Neither will others like it.
The mortal blows have been struck.
Among us are those
Who cannot countenance God’s gifts
That breathe, sing, talk, grow and flow.
Trees weep, wither and die
Oceans feel, understand, care and know
Life, preservation and regeneration.
These eternal gifts are diminishing;
They were always finite;
It may be too late.
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