As help finally comes too late as the devilish Santa Ana winds die down, thankfully bringing many residents of Los Angeles much needed respite, it seems that extensive damage has already been meted out. Sadly, much of the destruction has been more self-inflicted than anything else, and Saint Anne is not completely to blame. Greed is the main culprit, as these windswept areas should not have homes built on them in the first place, but such is the desire for quick profits and riches, the building will no doubt continue along with the incompetence of the authorities who are supposed to be in charge.
The Santa Ana winds arrive, susurrando,
carrying whispers del desierto,
a hot breath through los cañones,
stirring leaves and sueños alike.
They dance sin descanso,
spinning dust into spirals of memory,
wild and untamed como el corazón,
fueling a fire that waits to rise.
El aire quema, dry as an ancient curse,
its touch enciende las brasas dormidas,
fanning the flames of montaña y valle,
turning quiet forests into roaring infierno.
El fuego salta, hungry y vivo,
carried on wings of viento ardiente,
it devours, como un amante sin piedad,
leaving ashes where verdor once stood.
Yet in the chaos, there’s a rhythm,
a murmur of tiempos pasados,
of ancestors who knew this song,
who bent to these winds, and endured.
Oh, Santa Ana, viento caprichoso,
you bring heat, you bring fury,
you remind us of fragility y fuerza,
of how quickly life ignites, y se consume.
Still, the ashes will cool,
la tierra will heal,
and when you return, susurrando,
we will listen,
for even in your fury, hay poesía.
