It always rains on Good Friday.
A Buddhist would not notice.
Islam keeps to itself,
but the trees are carved in ivory.
The winter always lingers here.
In the tropics the air is light as lemon.
Here the grief of time is naked.
The churches are filled with shadows
that reach out and touch the eyes
of the faithful.
Why is it called good to die?
Why do people put their hands together
like clams?
Like wings that shelter a prayer?
A little voice inside the palms
whispers, it is sad to die.
It is sad to leave a world
that breathes so beautifully.
The air is so fresh,
moving over the city
with its yellow forsythia.
It is never stormy on this day,
only surreally still,
as if a riddle is being shared
with nothing in particular,
but the child who asks over and over,
why is it called good?
And I would tell it,
that a prophet is telling a story,
that it is good
to be gentle and cry,
but the odyssey of life is laughter,
nothing more.