Last of the Old World

Great Uncle Junis died
and was buried
on Christmas Eve.

Thirty-one people
came to see him off.
I saw him in a suit

for the first time in my life;
no wife, no children,
no wealth to leave

only the memory of his joy
when he played the French harp
and sang for passers-by.

I think of an Aztec poem,
that says though I perish
the songs I sang will still be sung.

So I make a place
for his music to live
forever in my soul.

Adios, mi tio,
last legacy of my grandfather’s
generation. Adios.