Colonial church towers shimmer and flash
in the mirrorshade façade of the university,
burn disapproval into our Europe-white necks
as we jaywalk the freeway to the old
academy ablaze with the light of Orozco,
whose broad brush clarifies past with future,
admonishes the wordwise, whose mighty pens
inspired, then served, sword after sword.
Below his frescoes, a cherub-cheeked,
shifty-eyed gilded youth steps up
to pocket a “Medalla al Valor Masonico”.
Bright blood seeps from the pulp
of a book clutched by a fanatic
caught in righteous rictus above him.
It thickens, drops, and brands the neck
of the deserving young bulwark
against the urge to freedom.
Next door, Expiatoria’s gothic spires
gleam with modern glass stained
in reassuring colours to ward off
Orozco’s bleak truths, to harvest
more souls from acquiescent bodies
for a hungry god.