Villanelle of a sort for Guatemala
The ash falls from Volcan de Fuego; its lava flows away.
The ashes come down from the sky on Guatemala, on you,
I hear how that is so, and how the unlucky dead must stay
beneath the piles of searing downfall that do not play
classical piano tunes upon a heart. I wear no mask like you
must should you go outside the house today.
The burning of my heart does not go astray;
it does not cool in the morning dew
that formed on brown grass by the highway.
I cannot write the eruption away,
for it must take its course until that course is through.
The lines I write for you may also go astray
or be unread, unchanged, may simply go away
when this page is consumed through and through.
Its words will silent drift where the buried stray
and someday bring these words written back to play,
as romantic words a lover might sing to you
about the ashfall of Volcan de Fuego that fell away
and the unlucky voiceless may have their final say.