Alone, early morning I chant
Sanskrit. I don’t bother to translate.

Every word leads to God’s
bliss sky of blueness. By midday,

light filtered through stained glass
casts marbles of gold.

I’m pounding a pulpit somewhere
as though my hand

palmed onto wood
with a thump that surprises even me

could prophesy what is untranslatable.
Late afternoon, when the sun is

lowering itself like a tree drooping
in a storm, the truth gets carried out

on makeshift signs reading freedom
and queremos justicia. No matter

what language you speak,
you know what rises up

is uttered from striking
mouths of fire.