The Cathedral Built from Ashes
by João Constantine
I borrowed my name from the rain,
for stone remembers less than grief.
Every street I crossed kept a silent census
of the souls that vanished without a witness.
My mother taught me that bread has a pulse,
that hunger is not merely the absence of food,
but the language by which history
asks whether God is still awake.
I have seen kings inside broken mirrors,
beggars carrying empires in their pockets,
and lovers who kissed as though each mouth
were the final country left unburned.
Time is not a river.
It is a blind violinist
playing beneath the gallows,
hoping someone mistakes sorrow for music.
What is forgiveness
if not teaching your own wound
to bloom without demanding blood?
The crows know the answer.
They build no monuments,
yet inherit every battlefield.
Tonight, I buried another version of myself.
He wore my smile like borrowed clothing
and believed tomorrow
could be negotiated.
The earth accepted him gently,
as mothers accept children
who return too late
to explain why they left.
Above us, the stars rehearsed
their ancient indifference.
Even light, after travelling for ages,
arrives already haunted.
If love exists,
it is not the fire.
It is the ash
that still remembers
the shape of the flame.