Memory of the dead
Wealthy vampires…
with the cold hands
of executioners
execute executive decisions,
determined to destroy
what 1,000,000 women,children and men-1910-died,
drowning in the rage of battle.
Mothers half-naked,
infants clutching their necks,
running frantically…
tripping over the bodies
of their sons,
teeth gnashing,
swinging machete,
spiting blood and mud
and screaming.
Land and liberty
were erased-
buried and burned-
along with the memory of the dead.
Along with the ejido.
With the smooth stroke of a pen
and with the ghost of Nixon
present in their eyes,
they smile…
and pronounce the omnipotence
of the free market.
The prophets of profit…
extending the scourge
of Columbus and Pizarro.
The freedom to buy things
you could never afford.
The freedom for Indians
to buy corn
that once flourished,
overgrown in their backyards.
The freedom to die
of curable disease.
The freedom to wach their children’s stomachs
swell and burst.
The freedom to starve and die
without land or liberty.
But Ramona
with eyes of obsidian
peering through her
blood and sweat-drenched mask,
darting unseen,
changing direction
with a swiftness of a bird,
through the shanties
of the canyons,
with every coyote,
every insect,
every phylum of life urging her-
propelling her forward.
The leaves and branches
of the forest
part for miles,
clearing her path.
The voices and screams
of the dead beneath her feet,
echo in the deepest chasm
of her soul
hurling her toward the city.
History surging
through her veins,
pulsing through her fingers,
hurling her toward the city.
She caresses her trigger,
and the words of Magon
fulfill her being.
And with each shot she fires
she affirms her movement, saying:
“Enough.
Enough.
No.I will see my own blood flow
before you take my land,
or my liberty.”
A mason came forth and said, "Speak to us of Houses."
And he answered and said:
Build of your imaginings a bower in the wilderness ere you build a house within the city walls.
For even as you have home-comings in your twilight, so has the wanderer in you, the ever distant and alone.
Your house is your larger body.
It grows in the sun and sleeps in the stillness of the night; and it is not dreamless.
Does not your house dream? And dreaming, leave the city for grove or hilltop?
Would that I could gather your houses into my hand, and like a sower scatter them in forest and meadow.
Would the valleys were your streets, and the green paths your alleys, that you might seek one another through vineyards, and come with the fragrance of the earth in your garments.
But these things are not yet to be.
In their fear your forefathers gathered you too near together. And that fear shall endure a little longer. A little longer shall your city walls separate your hearths from your fields.
And tell me, people of Orphalese, what have you in these houses? And what is it you guard with fastened doors?
Have you peace, the quiet urge that reveals your power?
Have you remembrances, the glimmering arches that span the summits of the mind?
Have you beauty, that leads the heart from things fashioned of wood and stone to the holy mountain?
Tell me, have you these in your houses?
Or have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house a guest, and becomes a host, and then a master?
Ay, and it becomes a tamer, and with hook and scourge makes puppets of your larger desires.
Though its hands are silken, its heart is of iron.
It lulls you to sleep only to stand by your bed and jeer at the dignity of the flesh.
It makes mock of your sound senses, and lays them in thistledown like fragile vessels.
Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning in the funeral.
But you, children of space, you restless in rest, you shall not be trapped nor tamed.
Your house shall be not an anchor but a mast.
It shall not be a glistening film that covers a wound, but an eyelid that guards the eye.
You shall not fold your wings that you may pass through doors, nor bend your heads that they strike not against a ceiling, nor fear to breathe lest walls should crack and fall down.
You shall not dwell in tombs made by the dead for the living.
And though of magnificence and splendour, your house shall not hold your secret nor shelter your longing.
For that which is boundless in you abides in the mansion of the sky, whose door is the morning mist, and whose windows are the songs and the silences of night.
i uvijek 1 il 2...(nadam se da nes poslusat me 
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