XAXAY

Dirt-road town;

Wind worn clumps of clay

Alone on the distant, friendless land

More than rock walls surround it.

Church bells toll out

Our sins; the guilt and faults

Of our deepest, secret thoughts

Church bells warn:

Strangers endanger our solitude,

Dare to expose the barren gossip we live by;

The dreary secrets entombed in our souls.

Forgive us our trespasses

As we build walls against trespassers.

The road's foreboding dust

Heralds intruders

Rare as water in these parts.

Aliens approach, encroach

In a white Renault fronting

A torment of dust,

As if the end of the world is near.

With the sign of the cross deliver us from evil:

Clear the square and hide in your hovels.

Let the chilled air greet them with whines.

Our best defense is to dissolve into clay

And let a bony whistle of wind

Blow fear across the plaza; and pray

That they turn away without ever

Seeing our faces or knowing our names.

-- CS Cholas

Querétero, México 18, 1997