The Tree That Silently Watched

For thousands of years,

I have watched man’s blood

run thick through the river

that meanders beside me.

Rooted to this spot,

I drink memory—

violent revolutions,

toppled dreams,

tongues cut by empires

as their women continued dancing.

I have watched babies toddle

between worlds—

as sprites are wont to do.

Before growing into children

that squeal and play

on the mossy blanket

of the forest’s floor.

While growing even older,

bolder.

Making blood brothers

of each other

with sharp rocks

and quick pricks.

I’ve seen them bloom

in the storm of becoming—

limbs tangled,

hearts surrendered,

falling once more

to the velvet ground

by the river’s wandering edge

whispering promises

sealed again in blood.

Their secrets sink

into the silt.

The water hides

what it cannot forget.

I have watched silently

as they were washed clean—

lovers clothed in white linen,

blessed beneath cathedral sky,

ready to create new life,

later baptized in the river’s water,

freed from sin.

They call this land free now.

They do not hear

the old gods laughing

behind the veil.

Still—

The magic endures.

In black robes

and white dresses.

In whispered Ave Marias

and ancient chants to Yemayá.

Lucumí Orichas and Catholic saints

dancing side by side

in the four winds,

sanctified by prayer

and ancient traditions.

I remain—

rooted in the present,

Constant—

swaying and watching.

As dinner is slaughtered

on stone hearths,

Nature’s altar.

I sip from the river—

nourished—

as they break bread

over the sacrificial bird,

roasting it slowly

beneath my boughs.

The river runs red again—

blended with blood

both ancient and ordinary.

And I,

the one who watched it all,

still keep

my silence…