My walls have held history-their story.

Monks whisper their evening prayers;

   and brick on brick built my stairs.
They kneel in humility to our dear Lord;
   I’m proud to be their housing ward.
I want to mark their passionate hearts;
   I admire the leadership and patience they excise from morn till dark.
But alas, instead of just sharing Christianity
   They show disrespect to the Native humanity.
They hurt the Native who settled my land,
   and the Natives alike send many a warrior man.
The Monks leave a harsh legacy but do they know it?
   Neigh, they fail to admit
they have dug themselves into a horrible pit.

My walls have held history-their story
A mother Native creeps about;.
   her young papoose begins to shout.
Before long he too will run about
   with his Native friends; they will leap and shout!
But meaningful monks hush the child
   and remind them how they ought to be mild.
The boy grows up; he is no longer a child;
  he is big and wild with muscles piled.
He wants to run away from the monks
   but at this thought his mother’s heart thumps.
If her son runs away only to be found,
   the monks will make him in misery drown.
I remember the monks and the Indian lad;
   how the monks brought him from his escape in chains and iron clad.
I feel ashamed as I remember the stick;

   the once brave young boy, his back covered with many a lick.
My walls have held history- their story
Though many a legacy I have seen,
   yet nothing to make my heritage gleam.
My walls have held history- their history
My life is over as the Natives leave along with the Monk…
   or so it seems . . .until William Travis and his men within me bunk.
My life takes a turn, what an unexpected twist;
   to this adventure I cannot resist!
Once home to the Spanish, I am only slightly dismayed
   to learn they are now my enemies made.
Oh what a fright!
   They fire their cannons every single night.
I’m bombarded but my walls stand in place ;
   I am a leader, never turning about face.
My walls have held history-their story
I stand up high, completely tall
   as Crocket himself climbs up my walls.
What a wild cat he is, manly and strong!
   The hymn of victory is his song.
He plays to the Mexicans as if to say, “We are not the least bit afraid!”
   Even great legends like Davy can make the truth a bit unstayed.
The men shiver, huddle, not knowing if they will survive the night.
   I feel my proud walls shrinking to depths of unknown fright.
I also remembered the monks’ reading of the Holy Book.
   Their faith sustained though their lives unhooked.
I remembered them murmuring about joy coming in the morning.
   A new perspective of life within me began warming.
Through twelve nights I held out strong;
   I mourned the next evening because all my men were gone.
Only faithful Juan Seguin
  returned to make their burying places clean.
My head turns
My soul spurns
My walls have held history-their story.