Sacred Land, Consecrated Waters

My grandfather owned for life one farm,

where he and grandma raised the family,

raising also horned cattle and pigs and

raising to the mounts a coffee plantation.

They were married for entire life and so

their entire offspring.

They had thirteen sons and daughters,

my father the youngest, the thirteenth.

Thirteen the tribes had our Lord settled

over the Holy Land,

thirteen that afterwards had assembled

on the Last Supper.

The farm was known as the Water Mill.

The mill, an old one, producing corn meal

that grandma, in a brick kiln turned into

succulent cakes.

The water from a creek that fell down

since the hill to the mill wheels.

Then, going to the farm we always asked

which was the route to go to the Paradise,

so was named its hinterland.

The creek was named the Singing Creek.

I always thought that after crossing farm,

its waters flowed to one of the four rivers

that it was said relieved over Paradise.

Remembrance smells to me as of old tales

like those we hear from the Holy Scripts.

Although I know bygones must be bygones,

I cannot avoid feeling its scent this very day,

and still I hear the Singing Creek moving wheels

of an old, ancient, Water Mill.

Published in West Ward Quarterly, print issue, Spring 2014.

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