See her.

Her, the girl who lives down the Pueblo.

The one whom each day

Drags the bucket from the well

The one who’s bandaged in the scullery clothes of her ancestors.

Her, of a wounded angel,

Who chants songs without words of folk long forgotten.

The sadness of her heart, masqueraded

By a look of fatigue.

Her heart lays crowded with the descendants of Cain

Blowing flutes and pounding drums,

All together in the minor mode,

Expressing their disquietness of life’s enigmas.

But all the while,

All whilst her heart crowds with dissonance And the flame of the sun continually scolds her

She walks,

And walks further,

In hopes that one day

Any day,

She again sees her father

The only man she covets

Rocking to and fro in his chair inside.

One step closer,

The children

Flooding the center.

Flowering from the last rung of the bell

With treats clutched in hands.

A “Hello!” From Ernesto,

A glance from the Don,

The Shepard guiding his flock in the distance.

The clanging of cowbells.

One step closer,

The sky has begun to dim the light of the world,

And the evening redness of the west begins to blanket us all.

Her steps scrunching in the gravel

Whilst her eyes vaguely make out

The place she calls “home”.

One step in,

A step simultaneous with the cracks

And creaks of decay.

Little left of the home she was born in

But fireflies.

Her fingers trembled as she let go of the bucket

Opening the door to the room,

Tears trickling down her softly lightened cheeks,

All as she meekly uttered:

“Father?”