By Carlos Romero
Poem for Gabriel García Márquez
There is gold in the flowers of the morning.
The yellow day shines unfiltered
by time-clouds, or smog-memory, through the mind’s
canopy down to where life clutches life
and water allows itself to be seduced by the earth.
There is gold on the lake of today.
Yellow fireworks struggle to
brighten the already well-lit clearing.
The sparklers are planted like flowers without
roots, unable to satiate their thirst.
There is gold on the shadows of the evening.
The forest struggles to retain its warmth
as the cold light of the city reflects upon an early moon,
invading with ethereal force
and the nostalgia of generations lost.
There is gold in the night below ground.
Other gems hide here too,
but roots search only for water
and for the demineralization
of yesterday immemorial.
The only goodbyes are rustling
leaves in the wind.
They struggle to hold on,
knowing their purpose will come again tomorrow,
but fearful of the coming dark.
The caterpillars of despair appear
from the wild, hidden places of the mind.
In one hour all the leaves of the forest are eaten,
and the yellow day of morning
drinks the lake, and cracks the earth.
The city takes the trees,
alive, dead, and dying.
They are cut from their roots
and transplanted into concrete and steel fixtures
where they will never grow again.
Who will remember the trees?
The condors are now bronze statues
too heavy to fly.
The dry, barren forest
can no longer support their weight.
What is the price of Macondo?
We have taken the gold from the flowers,
from the lake,
from ourselves,
from our future.
I don’t blame you for leaving, Gabo.
Only know that our tears may drown your village,
creating another Atlantis –
another myth to fantasize about the people
and the lives they might have lived.
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