The Mural

On the side of an old building On a storefront wall There is a narrative painting Of young Icarus' fall Angels now visible are blowing A trumpet of blue light And the Bronx soul here longing While wax melt into night. His name was Ortega, street wise And still beloved, he died In a cargo of bullets and noise Emptied in his side In the mural there is a candle Flowers on a cross Holy things that he did not handle Being black has a cost. But the painter is a prophet And his cold vision tell The world is at its sunset And the ghetto is a hell. The flowers fade on many walls Silence answer now our calls.