I admired her greatly because despite her various ailments (impaired vision and hearing, hip replacements, etc, etc), she was always the most faithful person I'd met - always with a prayer and/or song to raise as incense to her maker. She still is.
Angela Barrios, descanse en paz.
I've seen it.
I write a song about this.
Beauty, beyond all the conceptions ever instilled in me
by a corrupt, sick, confused society.
She is beauty personified
because she always submitted to God's will,
to the powers she always knew to be bigger than her,
And she profitted from it,
though she'd be ashamed to admit it and have it be recognized.
She would abdicate all glory to her God.
Now she lies in bed
in prayer, as she always was.
But now it's as though the prayers
that constantly streamed through her mind
have no barriers of social consciousness
to hinder them from vocalization.
We now hear what was once always only in her head,
in addition to that which was calculated and spoken in love -
adoration and worship.
But she can no longer calculate.
The sickness begot pain,
which begot misery,
which begot constant distraction...
which prevents calculation - accuracy or honesty.
Life sits beside her, smiling pitifully, with compassion.
Death sits inside her, waiting, but she has not met him yet.
She joins hands with Life and prays lovely gibberish into the atmosphere.
She mixes in a hymn in the monotone.
One can only hope that this God listens...
would He dare visit in a windstorm,
asking about the stars, the crocodile and the hippopotamus?
She has yet to complain,
she only accepts,
recognizing an inevitability far more intentional than fate.
Job never had such faith.
As she mumbles, she looks up into my eyes.
In hers I see a childlike wonder and a hope.
Her smile betrays her,
sanity has forfeited her.
She no longer hopes for the present -
not for this world, but the next.
Her voice, her eyes and smile, but most of all her hope -
they show me a beauty I have never before seen,
a beauty that makes the days bearable,
though I can hardly stand to look.
When she finally succumbs to the death inside her
and shakes his selfish hand,
the world will lose among its most precious gems.
The total beauty of this world will diminish,
Will I - can I - increase it?
Will the world ever be the same again?
Will I live up to the title she gave me,
that she alone could have given me,
and perhaps under no other circumstance?
She has called me many names before,
few of them flattering:
profanities in her own dialect,
and some even in the dialect of others.
But she also called me a prince
and dubbed me with a name of Biblical allusion -
Timothy - though i didn't know then what it meant.
Now, as I hold her hand and sit beside her smiling,
she has given me a new name
which she mutters in the midst of
a thousand other ecclesiastical ramblings.
I am nuestro músico especial.
Now I have been charged.
Though her body may die,
her voice never will.
I will carry it forever, until in my last days,
I can hold hands with Life and christen
a new singer to carry on this legacy -
a legacy of beauty and love that has been carried
since the beginning of time,
to be carried forever and ever.
In the mean time, I'm assembling a choir to sing her song -
an ode to joy,
but also to peace, love, life...
and life abundant.