My Pana

As I approached Huxley's caldera
I passed ladinos and gringos
then came upon Pana
So perfect I thought
even with her rough edges
and no longer distraught
with those who invaded
using fire and dredges
creating terrible waves in the beautiful lake
Indigenous men found dead in its wake
and it wasn't just there
The General had much at stake
but DC didn't care of the lives that he'd take
He was just a pet
An evangelical Christian snake
feeding on innocents and rebels
in the midst of his quake
A stain of blood
that the Wash could have lifted
but the UFC pleaded and then they insisted
and although the beautiful wardrobe resisted
the stain went in deeper
and the disaster persisted
But my Pana survives
though her mentality shifted
after many lost lives
Her face changes every second
as do her thoughts in the sky
Yet I see not a tear
even begin to form in her eyes
and they speak volumes
Pana is stronger than one could surmise
and so are her sisters
who surround Atitlan
and border a lively yet inactive volcan
Atitlan, San Pedro, or Volcan Toliman
and farther away
her sisters dispersed
And like Pana
beauty has risen from situations so flawed
the Tenangos and Leus, Flores and ruins
Antigua, the coasts, and the grand ciudad
And I see the magnificence
in the face Pana wears
More refined in each wrinkle
and in all her gray hairs
With the stains in her shirt
that she solemnly wears
In every scar and healed wound
that Pana and her sisters have shared