|
The following
poem was sent by Br. Michael Colasuonno to various brothers. The
city, one presumes, is Lima, but could very well be any city in the
developing world where people have come in hopes and dreams.
My face is ugly...
it
is the simple face of a father
...
a son ... a brother..
One day I crawled down from my mountain
to this dusty city that knows rain
only
once a generation.
There was starvation in the mountains,
and
the city beckoned us
with the lure of work and wages...
But to come down from the mountains
to
the city is, for me,
like
a bird trying to fly
at the bottom of the sea.
In the city, the air is thick and solid,
and
filled with 10,000 odours of a strange
people whose lives are rooted in concrete.
In the mountains the clean wood fire
kept
my family and me warm and happy,
but
in the city there is
no
shelter from the damp dirty air.
In
the middle of summer we shiver suddenly,
for
no good reason.
The city is a temple to a false god
and
like martyrs who refused to worship
the false idols, in it we die.
Our blood is not the same blood
as
our city brothers’.
We
know we were not made
to worship the god of the machine or the god of gold.
Once we have left the mountains,
we
cannot go back.
To
survive, we must stay in the city
where we feel its breath dirty
and
hot on our souls.
Our
real home is forever lost.
“Outlander, Indian, country-bumpkin,, hick..
... we study evil ways
...
to survive
...
we obey evil men ... to survive...
In the mountains we could live on the air.
There was not much,
but
we shared the pot of food on the fire;
the
door was ever open
to
welcome the face of a friend.
Here in the city,
the
doors are closed,
always.
The pots are empty,
the
fires out.
The
faces we see are
only
open mouths - shouting for help -
and
always no one comes to give it.
And in the shouting is the sound of chains,
and
handcuffs clanking in the night.
In the mountains there was always singing,
and
the sound of llamas
treading as carefully as a smile
on
the winding mountain paths.
Everywhere you looked in the mountains
was made by God,
and
we, we were free
to come and go.
But in the city,
everywhere you look is a fence of greed,
made
by men who are its prisoners.
I wish I were an eagle
and
could take my brothers high
up
into the air where we could swim in God all around us.
Looking down, we would know
that
we were not made to live
in
the belly of this monster city,
where people’s lungs collapse and
the
children cry out into the night
...
and fathers clench their fists.
If I were an eagle I would take my brother
as far up as the eyes of Jesus,
where he could see that Jesus dies 1,000 times
a day in the city.
He
would learn that Jesus
did
not linger in the cities,
but
favoured the quiet places like the desert,
where the air was, at least, clean.
But I am tired of flying and I do not think
I will become an eagle.
I
will stay a man.
And in his own good time, Jesus will fit wings
to me, if there is need for it.
I have a hunger, and a craw so big only
Jesus himself could fill it
...
and while I wait
I try to make myself happy playing
with words.
Would you listen to the words
of a
simple Indian?
If
you don’t, no one else will.
They
are all I have left from the mountains
and I wish to share them with you.
Blessed is he who hungers
in
his heart for the smile of his children.
Blessed is he who hungers
for
a gentle fire on which to cook the daily food.
Blessed is he who hungers
for
clean water to drink after a day’s labour is ended.
Blessed is he who hungers
for
a decent pair of shoes to walk the burning streets.
Blessed is he who hungers
for
a clean shirt when he must go begging for a job.
Blessed is he who hungers
for
a clean blanket on which to rest each night after praying...
Blessed is he who hungers
for
music, because music and singing and dancing are prayers
to God, in thanks and joy.
Blessed is he who hungers
for
a friend to share pain.
This is all I have to share with you
from
the mountains.
They
are simple words,
because I am only a simple Indian.
But
all good men who hear my words
will
know what I mean.
I am only an Indian from the mountains ...
and in this city, I lost my joy.
Vito Cioffero
|
