The plaza in the village
|
Where mission bells used to ring
|
Is now crumbled to a pile of stench and ruin
|
Even the swallows have vanished
|
no longer return in the spring
|
All the blossoms are buried
|
'neath the waste
|
Out of the shadows grow hatred
|
Along the corridor crawls fear
|
Crushed by the promise of hope
|
That never returned
|
Watched with a hawk's trained eye
|
Trees grow silent fruit
|
'neath a suffering sky
|
Those who have stayed, keep a flame
|
In memory of the fallen
|
And pass on the old rites despite the risk
|
But many more have left here
|
On mended broken wings
|
Turning to see your reaction
|
A tear drop fills your eye
|
But you protest not to give up as give in
|
Heading straight for the wreckage
|
Picking up a shovel and a hoe
|
Start putting back the bricks one by one
|
Numbers come out of the woodwork
|
Curious to see the rebirth
|
Above the swollen clouds
|
A strange sound fills the air
|
A silence never heard
|
Falling like blessed rain
|
And the swallows return
|
|
-----------------
|
Woven Birds
|
| Calexico |
