"BRUJO"

"Brujo"
 
For the Bujo happy were nights when trees shadowed by moonlight
gave no residence to ghostly visitors.
 
Joyous moments when passing from waking into
Orpheus’s gentle embrace.
 
Those moments were longed for…yearned for.
Not unlike an addict searching for their daily fix.
 
Terrible were nights when dead perched in skeletal trees
shrieking their derision, scorn, like harpies.
 
Poets long moldering in graves forgotten had not powers,
Strong enough to keep his shades at bay.
 
These were the nights when they would have such long discourse,
As to make a parliamentarian weep.
 
Wants, desires, cry’s pitiful, for one more moment’s extension could not,would not suffice.
 
Yet, they would flock seeking absolution for past sins.
Angry at living souls for living when they could no longer.
 
Yet as nights would wind relentlessly forward they would drift,
Drift towards some forgotten abattoir, to hide once more from living truth.
 
He would hasten their stumbling steps with poems magical.
Poems that captured moments illusive, rare.
 
No matter the eve’s wearing presence upon his brow.
Those thought-worn lines would ease as he read Cervantes.
 
To be a gallant about a lady’s honor was a fine fiction.
Resting his soul in Sancho Panza’s care.
 
In repose, regain strength for another eve of relentless bickering.  
Cursed with a Brujo’s dark worldly visions.
 
El Final
 
(c)-DS Baker