Our grandfather is a kindly elder
to our father.
Our foolishness reminds him of his youth,
so he cries,
then claims they are droplets of rain.
Guardian of the guards,
its buttons are the gates of the city,
its delicate routes lead
the blindmen’s hands to their homes.
Its colours are lover’s traps,
a friend of summer,
a fighter in his presence,
the one who hides, in cowardice,
from the relentless winter.
Carting the body wherever it wishes.
Contented in their fate, they obey the master,
and the dirt of the road.
In their somber stance,
yet they’re unlike their cousins coming
from the land of jeans.
Hear its gentle calling,
the beginning of rain.
Loved when filled.
Degraded after the journey.
Two unknown soldiers.
Keeper of secrets in stone.
The last witness.