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Their Soil
July,
Unusual ripples move
With countless tears.
On this land; quenched soil,
A corpse moves under their touch.
Its dead feet feed the frozen ground,
As it gazes at the tomb ahead.
Not for itself,
But for the weight in its arms.
Its reason to live,
Its sun its yelda.
With its light gone,
And the world in darkness,
He lifts the burden,
Only meant for his shoulders.
August,
The sky cries once more.
She gives me him the last,
Ethernal gift:
A silence meant only for him.
In exchange, he gives his own.
- Alejandro Bonfil
