Letters to… Moneta

Dear Moneta,

“Time past and time future

What might have been and what has been

Point to one end, which is always present.”

T.S. Eliot

 

We remember when we still felt young.

When we rode steel rivers that’d cut the hills.

 

The countryside, still ripe with the grapes of the land.

The air ripe with the spirit of their labor.

 

All hanging earth from the tired branches.

The rays in our sky,

and the sweat of heat still trickling down with elation.

 

Moneta, we walked through your doors that shimmered red like blood.

 

We did not know what to expect.

 

The work,

the stress,

the joy,

the ecstasy.

 

In your streets we walked,

the crippled walls who’ve known the tragedies of war.

 

But we were here.

We were new.

From the corners of the world we came- skies and oceans and moons apart.

But we were here.

 

And now we are leaving.

 

From a fragile glass,

the warm colors that shined like copper.

Deep amber.

The old gold crying with its steady wake.

Our feet planted to the earth,

our knees shaking as you told us that we were here to make something.

That we were here to prove something.

 

With your coming weeks,

your months and years, we changed.

Felt the heat of August turn into a timid gust.

 

We made bonds hardened like chainmail.

 

What we proved is that our hearts were weak

but our eyes still trembled with fervor.

 

With late evenings,

the sky grew black with hours that reached beyond your broken sleep.

Under pressure we felt the nerving weight on our shoulders.

We were put to the test and sometimes we failed.

Each time feeling your tepid touch.

 

Moneta, I’ve kissed death and it still lingers on my lips.

 

Perhaps we were unfaithful.

Ignoring your love for another.

Walking amongst the columned books, stacked up like mazes.

Perhaps we quivered with the dust,

too many unforgettable nights to remember.

 

We forged a story.

 

Told it in an empty hall.

And perhaps no one was listening.

But we knew you were still there.

 

Our ink dripped on cheap paper.

But from the black ink we painted on a page,

sometimes the script we were writing shimmered blue.

 

Now, it’s time for you to greet the stranger in the forest again.

 

Remember all those who’ve accompanied you here Moneta;

your merry band of gypsies.

The friends, the family, the loved ones.

Some of them are here today.

And others less fortunate.

 

They heard you crying.

They made you out of clay.

From hundreds of points on a map we shall travel,

but we will always feel the blood in your fingertips.

 

Remember that gothic church tower,

the eye of Providence,

the ones who watched over you in your sleep.

Because we were tangled roses.

 

We laughed,

and loved,

and hated,

and cried.

 

Two years at shutter speed,

glossing over our film-like dreams

none of which we imagined.

 

Take a second to feel that heat again.

Feel it grazing on your naked skin.

 

The taste of the indefinite countryside.

Where we made a home for ourselves.

 

Moneta when we set our wooden vessel ablaze,

our embers will still glow in the midst of any storm.

 

Remember us.

Just a little bit longer.

 

• Marcos Castellá

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