THE LADY ON THE RUBBLE
Is it the pell-mell debris that lingers as this dread
quietly whimpered now as end times, punishment
for the faithless and worshippers of the craven?...
Why weep then about decrepit church facades
crumbling into a heap capped by bell towers
that will no longer summon the village faithful
while they catch a little more sleep, spent and aching
from the long day’s work in fields and strange seas?
Will the gnashing of teeth stop this tired Earth
from spinning itself into this long overdue rage,
and spare these blessed poor whose sacred troth
was to inherit the earth? The gods have on cue
abandoned all who fear the wrath descending,
but now haplessly watch the statue of the Lady
(who waited on an old hill for the limp body of her son)
preside over this hill of rubble as one risen from a grave
or one who looks kindly at buried carrion strewn about,
carcasses of a temblor, yet askance in a stony gaze:
“Did not my son promise that the gates of hell shall
not prevail against this temple? Destroy this temple
and he will raise it again and again. Why weep then
over a mound of debris? They are dirt and stones.
They will not rise again. But his temple will be here.
It has risen. It will not fall again.” Temblors be damned.
---ALBERT B, CASUGA