I will go mad from gold. Under this metal sun
every Spaniard is a Midas, loving it.
After we burned the villages they made me
administer last rites. Now my guts riot
at every prayer. But prayer is all that’s left,
a royal warrant to guard the conscience
of conquistadors. As if I, huddled with rosaries,
could muffle muskets. I told the king it had to stop.
They spat at me, called me the loony priest,
said heat had curdled me. Look at the gold,
they said, God is with us. See how our ships
defend the faith. This troublemaker
with his bleeding heart, church privilege,
state pension, holy after the event,
what does he know of business? If he wants
to be a saint, lock him in a monastery.
Sometimes truth flaps like a trapped pigeon.
I break my wings against the glass.