Blood and Ashes

By Yutzil Virgen

--

We build our temple

from trembling hands,

stone by stone,

word by word,

until it reached the sky.

But you set fire to it,

until even stone learned how to burn,

dancing in the glow

while I choked on the smoke.

Every vow we whispered,

cracked and crumbled,

falling like prayers

turned to dust.

Now I carry the ruin–

blood on my palms,

ashes in my hair,

a cathedral of grief

where love once knelt.

And still,

my heart insists on beating

in the silence,

searching for hymns

inside the rubble,

as if hope could ever rise

from blood and ashes.