It is here that we come in silence.
It is here that we pray in desolation.
It is here that we build the temples,
rock upon rock, slowly, gradually,
painstakingly.
It is here that our bones break,
our hearts sink, our promises dry up.
It is here that we worship, birth and death,
shadows and fortitude.
It is here that we stare at our ruins,
laws and leaks, pyramids of information,
tombs of embitterment.
It is here that we come in search of fruit
and find seeds blown to pieces.
It is here that we find that uncertain glory
called obscurity.
© Ernesto González, 2010
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