Because Gaudi’s cathedral still drips with the sweat of its maker,
and the march of the headlines need not crush what enchants you.
Because who knows how long the memory of mercies among us
might last, or where mercy resides beyond memory.
Because you, too, have been shaken awake by age-old phrases
that someone scribbled down moments before the soldiers invaded.
Because autumn leaves fall and we melancholize the decay
while beyond our vision, worms churn the soil around ancient roots.
Because centuries from now, a bowl shaped by hand from wet clay
will draw a deep sigh no cinderblock can even dream of.
Because none of these answers satisfy, yet the question remains
and haunts me onward.