* * *

While we were flying toward foreign skies,

we forgot that we had roots,

they rotted in the old houses,

begging for a glass of water.

We conquered the white clouds,

while drop by drop our loved ones

flowed into the ocean’s abyss,

without disturbing anyone.

Only their absence remained,

bodies on old furniture,

faces in photographs,

the weight after day one, day forty, forever.

And no sky could ever tell us

which river to pray to for forgiveness.