For Elisa Izquierdo, 1989-1995
The projects stand still as crisp winter air
And all you are now is a whisper without breath
Blowing through the emptiness of dead trees.
I can still hear your laughter
The stolen smiles of your youth.
Your tiny fingers slip away
Before you can even reach the next step.
They can no longer hold on to the monkey bars
Which are too cold and lifeless.
Your screaming is muted
And no one can hear you.
Although the pristine snow blankets your blood,
Its memory is stained here like the graffiti on the walls.
The pain in your heart still lives in this park
In every tree and under every lonely bench.