Juan Villoro, Clenched-Fist Held High

Today, I've been working after a hectic morning, from the apparent safety of my home.

We are already organizing the next trip to rebuild the three houses, the students and our team, tore down in Xoxocotla. Everyone seems excited so far. 

I have also, been crying on and off throughout the day, when I get to see some things that are just too overwhelming to absorb rationally. 

A volunteer removing debree, and another...

A song welcoming / thanking the volunteers

that came to aid [Cibeles Fountain].

[A poem by Juan Villoro made into a video.
Translation from the original text]

 You're from the place where you pick up

the garbage.

Where two lightnings

 strike at the same place.

Because you were able to see the first

you awaited for the second.

And you're still here.

Where the earth opens

and people gather round.

Once again, you arrived late

[in fact] you're alive as result of it,

because you missed 

the appointment with Death

at 13.14,

thirty two years later

of another appointment 

you also missed for 

not being on time.

You're the omitted victim.

The building shook and you

saw you life pass by before

your eyes, like it happens

in the movies.

A part of your body hurt 

that you never knew it existed [before]:

The memory of a skin,

that didn't bring back scenes 

of your life but of cracking

matter.

The water also remembered
how it was before, when it

owned the place.

It trembled in the rivers

it trembled within the houses

we made up upon the rivers.

You picked up the books 

of another time, of the one you once were

long before those pages.
It rained over [an already] wet [floor]

after the national

commemorative parties,

which were closer to merriment

than grandeur.

Is there still enough space

for heroes in September?

You're afraid.

You have the courage of being afraid.

You don't know what to do, 

but you do something.

You didn't found the city 

nor defended it from invasions.
You are, if any, a beggar

of history.

One that picks up the waste

after the tragedy

One who adjusts bricks

gathers stones,

finds a comb, 

two shoes that don't match,

a wallet with pictures.

You are the one that organizes loose ends,

bits of bits

remains, just remains.

Whatever fits in two hands.

You're the one without gloves.

The one who distributes water.

The one that gives away medicines

because you already recovered from the fright.

You're the one that saw the moon
and dreamt weird stuff, but missed to 

interpret it.

The one who heard the cat meow

half an hour before

and understood it

with the first jolt as the water

rose from the toilet.

You're the one that prayed in a 

foreign tongue because you had forgotten

how to pray.

You were the one who remembered who

was in what place.

The one that went for your kids

to pick them from school.

The one that thought about others

who had kids on school.
The one that was left without a battery.

The one that offered

his or her cell phone.

The one that robbed an abandoned store

and [later] regretted about it

in a collection center.

The one that understood was not needed.

The one that was awake so others could sleep.

You're the one that belongs here,

the one that also just arrived

but already belongs here. 

The one that says "city" and [really means]

you, me, and Peter and Martha

and Francisco and Guadalupe.

You are the one without electricity

or water

for two days now.

The one that still breathes.

The one that clenched a fist up high

to ask for silence.

There were those who heeded.

Those who also clenched their fists up high

to listen if people were still alive [under the rubble].

You were one of those who did raise your clenched fist

to try to listen to a [faint] whisper.

You're one of those that will not stop listening.