They tell us it’s 64.
Perhaps a bit more.
Certainly, more than its double.

While we mourn by names
(Not by numbers)
With an unprecise grieve
that scar our souls
after we confirmed them
multiplied by hundreds.

They blow the blood off their loafers,
with the oxygen that never
got to the mountains on time.

As if the winds had blown their memories.
As if now every gust and rainstorm
didn’t bring them back
a little bit.

And they want us to forget.
Drown our memories,
delete every reason
for staying here.

As if they haven’t tried before
to scratch down parts of our story.
As if this was the first storm
that shook us to our knees.

As if they could wash away
our DNA and the memories
twirling on its helix.