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| Francisco Goya, 1814: The Third of May 1808 |
Erasure (Tap/click on images to see in full size.)
.
We're not allowed to use restricted streets,
To cross the border or the fence or wall.
We're humbled as we wait, in patient lines,
For hours at checkpoints all across the land
That once was ours to freely move in. Now,
We're caged and treated much as beasts might be.
.
The ones who fled can nevermore return.
And we, remaining in ancestral lands,
Are those consigned to be the wretched caste—
To live our lives within our prison walls
Or serve as labor, cheap, for masters harsh
Who view us as the dregs, untouchables,
Who must be kept in place—or else dispatched.
.
So terror still is used and horrors wrought,
As all the world is told that wrong is right
And fire and force are lent to crushing might.
.
The sea, in which we'd fished, is ours no more.
Our groves destroyed, our orchards snatched away,
We're robbed of means of basic sustenance—
And even of the gifts of cloud and sun.
.
The rain is deemed our masters’ property.
We can’t collect it for essential use.
The solar panels some had dared to try
Are torn away by soldiers or destroyed.
For everything, we must depend upon
The whims and mercies of the ones who rule.
.
******
.
The names of cities, towns and villages
Have changed, along with their inhabitants.
The mention of the name of the land itself
Is not permissible. Our people too,
Who still remain, along with those who fled,
Are not allowed their own identity.
.
Our songs, our symbols and our flags are banned,
Our homes demolished and our bondage pressed,
Our bodies burned and scattered, turned to dust
That sinks within the sea or drifts away.
.
******
.
And every day, the ones surviving learn
The lessons they had learned before anew,
And like the tides and winds that cycle through,
The seasons come, of death and misery—
Of bombs dispatched from air and land and sea—
The gifts of benefactors, "brave and free".
.
So burned and buried children scream for help
As all the leaders of the world applaud
Or else have only words with which to say
That something should be done about this hell.
.
The ones who speak of this are deemed to be
In league with those who take to arms to lift
The boots that press upon our necks and free
The thousands kidnapped, never charged, yet kept
For years and tortured in the dungeon cells.
.
******
.
Can mere existence be a crime—a threat
To those who shudder at the presence still
Of those that they have striven to erase?
.
The young may still rebel; the old comply.
They bow their heads in due humility.
.
Indeed, we must be silent, speak no words
That might affright and so offend the guests
That we had sheltered in their time of need,
And who have claimed not just the land alone,
But full, exclusive rights to life—and memory.
.
******
.
And yet—and yet, our songs are softly sung
Or even chanted loudly as we die.
And still we wear the scarf and headdress and
We raise the flag that still defies the lie.
.
So some are broken by the hammer and
Some others fight in every way they can—
By simply living still and shedding tears
And smiling still on meeting you and me.
.
.
We're not allowed to use restricted streets,
To cross the border or the fence or wall.
We're humbled as we wait, in patient lines,
For hours at checkpoints all across the land
That once was ours to freely move in. Now,
We're caged and treated much as beasts might be.
.
The ones who fled can nevermore return.
And we, remaining in ancestral lands,
Are those consigned to be the wretched caste—
To live our lives within our prison walls
Or serve as labor, cheap, for masters harsh
Who view us as the dregs, untouchables,
Who must be kept in place—or else dispatched.
.
So terror still is used and horrors wrought,
As all the world is told that wrong is right
And fire and force are lent to crushing might.
.
The sea, in which we'd fished, is ours no more.
Our groves destroyed, our orchards snatched away,
We're robbed of means of basic sustenance—
And even of the gifts of cloud and sun.
.
The rain is deemed our masters’ property.
We can’t collect it for essential use.
The solar panels some had dared to try
Are torn away by soldiers or destroyed.
For everything, we must depend upon
The whims and mercies of the ones who rule.
.
******
.
The names of cities, towns and villages
Have changed, along with their inhabitants.
The mention of the name of the land itself
Is not permissible. Our people too,
Who still remain, along with those who fled,
Are not allowed their own identity.
.
Our songs, our symbols and our flags are banned,
Our homes demolished and our bondage pressed,
Our bodies burned and scattered, turned to dust
That sinks within the sea or drifts away.
.
******
.
And every day, the ones surviving learn
The lessons they had learned before anew,
And like the tides and winds that cycle through,
The seasons come, of death and misery—
Of bombs dispatched from air and land and sea—
The gifts of benefactors, "brave and free".
.
So burned and buried children scream for help
As all the leaders of the world applaud
Or else have only words with which to say
That something should be done about this hell.
.
The ones who speak of this are deemed to be
In league with those who take to arms to lift
The boots that press upon our necks and free
The thousands kidnapped, never charged, yet kept
For years and tortured in the dungeon cells.
.
******
.
Can mere existence be a crime—a threat
To those who shudder at the presence still
Of those that they have striven to erase?
.
The young may still rebel; the old comply.
They bow their heads in due humility.
.
Indeed, we must be silent, speak no words
That might affright and so offend the guests
That we had sheltered in their time of need,
And who have claimed not just the land alone,
But full, exclusive rights to life—and memory.
.
******
.
And yet—and yet, our songs are softly sung
Or even chanted loudly as we die.
And still we wear the scarf and headdress and
We raise the flag that still defies the lie.
.
So some are broken by the hammer and
Some others fight in every way they can—
By simply living still and shedding tears
And smiling still on meeting you and me.
.
December 13th, Wed.
Berkeley, California
.
Berkeley, California
.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Epilogue (added Dec 14th)
.
The world looks on as children, women die,
And leaders join to propagate the lie.
And some applaud the massacres, as those
Who’re troubled still by conscience and decry
Relentless crimes are marked as “haters” who
Must shut their mouths or face the consequence.
.
The orphans know that they will never see
Their parents. The parents see their children die.
Their worlds are blasted, emptied, drained of light.
.
There's little food or water fit to drink.
The homeless huddle as the winter comes,
And hundreds share a filthy toilet, wait
In line for hours for bread—as prices soar.
Diseases kill the ones who still survive.
.
Our throats are parched—and then the rain arrives.
The children dance and smile, collect the rain.
And so, despite the misery and pain
That span the generations, we survive.
We're still a people not as yet erased.
.
 |
| Pablo Picasso, 1937: Guernica |
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