Poem: This Is What I Know by Cristina Querrer

That the trees weep
when we haste to waste
and the world tilts
to unclog its ears
from talks of war.
That pressure points
never break the skin
unlike the impact of
a memory.

That you so much
have said that
you have done
your best, and I am
still lying open,
like an unrelished book.

That loathing is as evident
as fine print and atrocities-
continuances of indignation.
and when the faint light dies
we become refugees of dark thoughts,
and prisoners of a wretched moment.

That I will always mourn
Morocco or the Himalayas
where I seem to fly
awake in my dream
and that I shall continue walking
toward the sea

with everything of you

before planes crashed
before buildings burned
before the world rebelled
all the way to the silence
of your mother's womb

© Cristina Querrer

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