We have seen the potter’s tale hidden <br />in the ashes of dying stars, <br />dreamed of snow and sky <br />and a land where the great scale pan <br />tilts to wash the foul and muck of our stained humanity <br />a land where we bear residence <br />and have engraved on our foreheads <br />the platinum seal of its citizenship. <br /> <br />If the House of Windsor <br />is the stiff gilded remainder of lost tribes <br />or Netzahualcoyotl the poet warrior <br />of the fifth sun, then surely <br />there is a flash of memory, <br />in our many narratives woven of truth and lies. <br />For surely the Son of Man <br />shall return on the clouds to mend the broken <br />and the Quetzalcoatl God of rainbow and plume <br />shall restore dignity to the conquered. <br /> <br />This is to say we have not abandoned <br />the musing of the young—hope held <br />in our hand like an eager red balloon <br />or a perfect telling by the raconteur. <br />Here beyond the stammering of fools <br />or the brute roar of the powerful, <br />there can be heard on the slow <br />and definite tick-tock of time’s breeze— <br />a voice on the rainbow spread of firmament. <br /> <br />A voice soundless <br />but for the steadfast tonality of truth— <br />we are more than sojourners <br />in the fibrous cocoon and embryonic fluid <br />of an eternal protest in which there <br />is no other space but the space to ask <br />like an monk with one second left of faith, <br />or a child born in the reappearing stream of auroras— <br />our first words indistinguishable from their last— <br /> <br />are we are liberated because we are slaves to truth? <br />Are we conquers because we have sown drones to plough shares? <br />Are we saved only by the dream of this kingdom, this citizenship come?<br /><br />Leo Briones<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-think-of-god/
