A Narrative from an Aging Church

Kevin Cedrick Ramos Castro

The soil, As abundant as the revered sacred traditions, Where it stood quakes As the long-forgotten truth bares itself.

The walls, As ancient as the Holy Scriptures it guards Crafted by once delicate hands, Bound together by native sweat and Protected by foreign blood Talk of victorious battles And of looming defeats Witnessed by the menacing eyes of the past; Inscribed on the jubilating cloth of sovereignty, Symbolic of the battle cry of every rebel and every hero Who fought to escape from Being a prisoner In his own paradise.

The pillars, As sturdy as a faithfuls hopes, Hold the darkest secrets

Kept by the decaying windows For over a century Of woes and despairs.

The ceiling, As grandeur as heavens earthly reflection, Safeguards the treasures From outlandish heritage, Filling the vacuous dome with Reminiscence of a Mestizos preeminence.

The door, As splendor as the ivories at heavens gate, Speaks of the swarm of faces it met: The religious yet ironically vicious man, The ferocious yet gentle general, The alone yet accomplished dead soldier, The discreet yet frantic young lady.

The cross, As holy as the Man it carries, Initiates the benediction Of a once vulgar land The beginning of an epoch Towards becoming An outright civilized ground.