Francisco Romero: Dispatch from the Line – Raza Press and Media Association

Dispatch from the Line No. 1

The heavy lung-piercieng stench of sovacos and beer eminates…
A mid-aged man, unshaven, unbathed…
He slumps over as the bus driver comes to a halt at the corner of Broadway and 4th.

He is half-asleep, almost unconcious.
A crisp, crystal-clear line of saliva hangs from his mouth… sparkling.
His eyes are peeled-back and all I see is his bloodshot whites.

Right across from him,
Las comadres, comadriando.
Looks of disgust, stares of judgement, shaking heads of disapproval as they look down onto the young man. He is entranced by the influence of the alcohol swimming in his veins, his head bounces in a neck-breaking sway, dancing to the beat of the jolting bus…

He falls! Face to the floor! Thump!
I instinctively reached out and grabbed his shoulder to pick him up….

“Gracias hermano” he says to me as he grips my forearm.
His blue eyes shine through the crud that covers his face. Mugre. Dark black chunks of it.

“You’re welcome vato” le digo.

Las comadres turn away, as if to say in their minds, “Should have left him on the floor…”

“Next stop twenty-fifth and Market!” The outdated speakers screech as the bus driver announces the next exit.

All of the gente shuffle toward the opening doors of the bus, two-stepping, dodging each other as they hop off.

I get off and the drunken man shyly asks, ” Hey man, if it’s not too much to ask, can you spare some change?”

“Simon que si, here is some cambio”

We start walking together down the street… so I ask, “So, if you don’t mind me asking you, what’s your story?”

The water in his eyes, the tear in his soul gleam as the sun laces his face with a slight glow…

” Thanks for asking. This is my story. Less than four years ago my wife left me! From out of nowhere, she said she was leaving me. No explanation at all. But I could feel in my heart that she loved me no more. Two days later she is gone, and all she left behind was a a brush. I picked up the brush and smelled it, for it still had her scent… A week after that, I was selling my stuff at a yardsale trying to make extra cash. Damn it!”

I stood there on a random street corner, cars speeding by… the city life in movement… he continued saying, “I gave up on life, you know what I mean? There is nothing more in the world, than to have the love of my life back, just the way it was before… I want my broken heart to be healed. I want to feel the sun’s warmth shine down upon me and my love as we roll around in the sand at beach.”

In that moment, I put my hand on his shoulder and said, ” I know exactly what you mean. I cannot judge, and I will not talk down to you brother, but, let me just say, that life keeps on going, and going, and going. It will not stop just for you and rewind itself. Your skin will deteriorate and you will become mere dust blown in the wind. Your life will have passed you by as you stood there and watched…”

The tension in the air got thick as he stared me down with frustration. I felt he wanted punch me in the mouth. His arm twitched as he held back his anger.

I say,”Hey brother, here are five bolas. Lets go down the street, walk the neighborhood and hit the liquor store a that is just two blocks down.”

His mouth salivated as I walked out of the store with two, ice-chilled 24 ounces of Modelo Especial Cervesa.

We cracked the cans open at park. We both took swigs to wash our pains away. Little kids played soccer in the the city street and broken bottles lined the sidewalks.

I got up and gave the brother a hug. His stench drenched and spilled onto me, but I didn’t give a damn.

I told him, ” Hey carnal, live life to the fullest. Take destiny into your own hands. Make things happen. Be. Exist. Listen to the birds sing every morning. They survive and teach us many lessons. Enjoy the trees…watch them sway in the breeze. Les encanta bailar. Watch them dig their beautiful roots into the ground… and if you ever get a chance, caress a portruding root and tell it: Thank you brother, for your strength, for it gives me strength…

Nos vemos, al rato…” I said and disappeared on the next bus that came by just in that moment.

Dispatch from the Line No. 2

The white light of the early morning sun rises from the East… lining the hillside of the city in what seemed to be a fiery inferno…

The smell of pan dulce and café brewing creep through the barrio…as the fog does on a crisp spring dawn..

This is San Diego, Califas…Barrio Logan, the oldest Mexican neighborhood in the city… still here, still existing, still resisting…

The slowly but surely advance by the capitalist puercos on the horizon… Where the vato locos with tattoos swirling down their arms walking their pitbulls give way to the “model-looking” gringas with their pink bags and lil’ maltese dogs peeking out, as if they were walking down some runway… strutting their stuff…

There I am… at Chicano Park, under the bridge…

This park is one of the last “autonomous spaces”, one the last strongholds, and it may become one of the places where we take a last stand against the wiping out of our history… Preparense mi gente, para luchar…

Estos cabrones want us to disappear from the map, literally… They have done this to us time and time again, but we have survived, we have passed on our knowledge down from generation to generation, through our dance, our song, our art, our rifles…

Chicano Park is one of the few places, if not the only place, where the green, white and red flag, adorned with the Virgen de Guadalupe or the Tres Caras de Aztlan flag unfurl and flap high in the sky of the west coast breeze…

It is where there is a statue of Zapata that looks over and protects the little children running around, jumping from swing to swing, from slide to slide… It is where a little kid, not even 6 years of age asks his father, ” Apa, who is that?” …”Mijo, that is Emiliano, a great Mexican Revolutionary, he was not a politician, but rather, a true servant of the people…”

The majestic columns of murals, with colors of resistance extend across the freeway, reaching out and in bright, bold pinturas say, “Aqui estamos, y no nos vamos… We are here to stay!”

There is no other place like this in the world… and here I am, at 6:43 a.m. in the morning… embracing El Sol, Tonaltzintli, begins to shine down on these magnificent pieces of art, some that are at least 30 years old… I am stretching my legs out, on the lower southside hill of the park… my chest drops onto the moist grass as my arm is reaching out to touch the tip of my shoes…

A family of about 6 or 7 comes out from their vehicle and one of the men greets me… “Buenos dias…”

I smile back at him and say, “Yes it is, it is a beautiful morning…the most beautiful…”

“You going out running?” the man asks as he exits his primered Ford Astro van…

“Yes, I am…” I replied to the viejito… whos hands are twisted, cracked and dried up from working all of his life in the campo, in the factory, scraping a living and putting food on the table for his children, who now have children, who’s children are now having children… I have seen these hands before, and I recall touching my abuelito’s hands as he lay in his coffin. He too, was a campesino, he loved the land, he was one with land… and now, his soul dances the night away con Nuestra Madre Tierra into eternity…next to my abuelita… Micaela…

The cycles of life repeating and beating to the ryhthm of the moon dancing in the sky… everynight, lit up by the sun’s caressing warmth… light years away, so far yet, so so close…

I stand up, and the familia, waves goodbye at me as I begin my trek… I give a slight turn, and the viejito, the old man, extends his hand out to me and shakes my hand… I literally feel, generations of knowledge and wisdom pouring into my soul as his white mustache, his white eyebrows, his white hair glow in my face when the sun strikes at his edges…

His smile is soothing… his laughter is inspiring… an elder, that I will forever respect, without evening knowing him…

I begin to walk away and the entire family disappears before my eyes as I start to wander about Chicano Park… admiring and being inspired by the murals that are etched into the concrete pilars stretching out into the heavens…

I close my eyes as I stand dead center within the kiosko, the Mayan-inspired center stage that sits at the heart of the park… as I stand there with my eyes wide shut, I can feel the sun beginning to pull sweat out from underneath my skin… It is going to be a beautiful day, the best…
I dream to myself…

I open my eyes again, taken-aback from the sheer strength that portrudes and eminates from each and every single mural that wrap around the t-shaped freeway canvasses…

I see the Che Guevara mural, still strong after years of being vandalized..

I see the indio holding up the weight of the entire 5 Freeway, the longest in Califas… upon his shoulders…

I see the History of Chicano Park Mural… a history many don’t know the slightest thing about… It is a history that must be told, must be recorded, must be etched into the walls of eternity…

Let me tell you a short version about how this park came to be… Basically ay.. basically… what happened is that the cops wanted a police station and the community wanted a park… so they went toe toe and fought for the land… literally, la gente, stood in front of the puercos, in front of the bulldozers, in front of oppression, and they began to create the park, nopal by nopal, striking the Earth with picks and planting flowers, maguey, rosas… whatever seed we could get out hands on, we planted…

From there, Chicano Park grew, literally… with the smell of rosas escaping into the skies, with frijoles cooking, with tamales warming…

There was no turning back, Chicano Park was born… it was alive… and its heart beat throughout the entire city… its veins crawled out from the hillsides and stretched out all the way to the bay… la playa… it was one with the city, one with the Earth, one with the fire…

Destroy Chicano Park, and you destroy San Diego… Just like that…

So, there I am, still standing there, and it is only 7am now…

The images of Ruben Salazar, the Brown Berets, the Aztec Eagle Knights…
The colorful portraits of families, holding onto each other… the son, the mother and the father, holding his hand out with the Estrella Roja, the Red Star… in his palms… fortelling what is to come… to bring balance to the Earth…

This is Chicano Park… y que?

I knelt down, right in front of the Emiliano Zapata statue… then I began my sprint toward downtown San Diego… I had five miles to run before I could catch the other line, up north toward the playas, the beaches… I could feel the eyes of the statue Zapata follow me off into the distance… “Suerte camarada…” I felt him say…

All I could think of, as I ran off into the distance, was about Coatlique, the brightest mural that stands at the entrance to Chicano Park… Coatlique stands for the “Aztec Goddess of Earth”, and the first known statue of Coatlique was found over 500 years ago, then it was buried, in an attempt to hide it and erase it from history, just as they are trying to do today, but the statue of Coatlique was brought back out 300 to 400 years later, then it was buried and disappeared again, it was nearly 500 years later that the grand statue, sculpted by our ancestors was literally resurrected and displayed for everyone to see in 1964…

Patience, struggle, belief… this is what I thought about as I ran off and the beautiful, bright colors of the barrio turned into the cold, silver, edgy buildings of downtown…

Dispatch from the Line No. 3

I looked back and the barrio was but a glow off in the distance… The sun’s piercing rays began to creep over the newly constructed lofts and the ritzy cafe’ on my west as I ran toward the city centre…

I nearly stumbled over some cardboard boxes that were sprawled across the sidewalk. I hopped over it feeling like an Olympian hurdling over obstacles… and to my surprise, as I turned to look back, I suddenly seen something moving, it was an elderly African brother, potruding out of what was a coccoon-like makeshift home…

He peeked out and caught my eye… He simply smiled and his forceful soul fluttered out like a butterfly, with the colors as bright as a Monarch’s…

He had nothing, but had everything at the same time…

Living at the crossroads of classes, los Ricos y Pobres…

As I ran under the shadows of 20 story buildings I literally began to feel like a soldier in a war…running into enemy territory… from the trenches of the barrio into the fortresses of capitalism, the skyscraping towers, where billions of dollars were traded, were saved, were stolen…

I was brought to ease as I ran past a young Latina woman, Afro-Cubana maybe… She was sweeping the sidewalk down with water and soap… I caught a sniff of the wet concrete… She was cleaning the front entrance to a fancy five-star restaraunt which sat empty, but would later be filled with San Diego’s elite…

I gasped out a “Buenos dias…” to her as I ran by… and just like the homeless man just three blocks back, she also smiled, a smile I would consider possibly the most beautiful in the world… She stopped sweeping, resting her arm on the broom, she blew a kiss and soulfully said, “Bueno dia chico…” in a pronounced Carribean accent… her eyes said to me, thank you for being so courteous…

I had ran less than ten city blocks in and already, the humanity that survives under the weight of society had blessed my morning… in the form of two beautiful human beings, whom I’ll probably never see again in my lifetime, but souls that I will always carry with me in this struggle to be free, to live, to dream…

I kept trekking along and decided to cut back down Market Street, over to the marina… My original destination was much further up, but no worries, tu sabes. I would come back later on and catch the 11 Busline…the beaches that awaited me weren’t going anywhere…

I flew through the city’s main artery, Market St., block by block, and when I could, I peeked into the fancy cafés and kitchens… I could see La Raza, sparking up the stoves and ovens, sharpening knives, setting up tables inside and out on the patio,

As the engines of business roared up… I thought to myself that it was Mi Gente, that were the fuel that ignite and drive this machine… We are the fire that lights up society…

From the treacherous campos de lechuga, broccoli, etc., to the truckers that deliver merchandise, to the chef that prepares the expensive Asian Chicken Salads that the privelaged would be ordering that evening, to the waitresses that bring out your food and serve you, to the limpiadores that come and clean up after you….

We are everywhere and nowhere…

I finally rounded the corner near the Marina and the distinct, fresh, beach breeze smacked me in my face… I love that smell!!! I grew up near the coast and as I ran through I had a quick flashback at how at 10 years old I used to lay in the warm beach sands that covered me, like a cobija, after a refreshing swim in el mar…

I looked up and seen the twin Marriot hotel towers that line the marina…

A trolley crossed my path…ding ding ding ding it sounded…

I recalled that it was not that long ago that dozens and dozens of brave mujeres, Las Housekeepers del Marriot* walked out off the job because the Hotel Corporate Bosses wanted the mujeres to clean 30 rooms a day at work , an impossible feat… So they resisted the Marriot pigs’ orders and struggled for over a month on the streets, protesting, marching, and even occupying the bosses’ office until their demands for justice were met…

It was a remarkable battle, led by mujeres, a struggle that we must draw lessons from…

Just then, I seen a housekeeper walking across the street entering the Marriot tower going into work…

La vida sigue…

I shot around the Marriot’s edge and popped up right onto the Marina’s pathway, where expensive yachts and fancy restaraunts collide…

I began sprinting through the sidewalk that divided the two, and looked over to a couple drinking lattes and mochas… Oblivious to the oppression that seethed around them… Their little child which sat in a stroller, stuffed a fresh-baked cinnamon roll into his mouth… he giggled and wiggled… getting accustomed to living in the lap of luxury…

I stopped at the marina’s edge and looked out toward the never-ending ocean crashing into the horizon… a marvelous sight…

I flashbacked hundreds of years into the past, imagining the huge ships with the emblems of conquest sewn into their sails, The Spanish Coat of Arms and the Christian Crosses… I thought about the native indigenous peoples’, the Kumeyaay, and how they were driven out, captured, controlled… about how they resisted, how they exist…

I thought to myself… We are everywhere and nowhere…

Our seeds of survival and resistance will make you see us… Whether you like it or not…

I gleamed a smile as sweat and tears of joy ran down my face…

Dispatch from the Line No. 4

I arrived to my comrades home after my morning jog… I showered up, ran downstairs and across the street to catch the #3 bus line back into downtown San Diego… It was pretty early and the city was still coming alive…

As I stood there at the bus stop, the sun was pounding away at the crisp morning fog that weaved in and out of the city’s edges, showering us with its rays… beams of light that had traveled over 90 million miles just to bless us with its heat… I glanced over at the row of flowers that adorned the little pink house in the barrio. I watched three bees hover around the bright, crimson red roses… as they danced around the rosas, I wondered what life would be like without the love and warmth the Sun delivers to us every day… There would no life here without them… everything is in balance…

I hopped onto the bus and we jerked forward out of the neighborhood, Barrio Logan, passing Under the Bridge, at Chicano Park, the marvelous sight of the bright yellow, red, blues, and greens, of Aztecas, Zapata, of Las Adelitas, murals that wrapped around the pilars reaching into the sky, holding up tons of steel and concrete of El Puente Coronado.

My eyes were fixed on the street, at the corner of Cesar Chavez and National Avenue, the bus kept hiking up the small hill that leads into downtown… I peered out of the bus windows and seen all of the Raza, mi gente, on their way to work, on their way to cook for Them, to clean up after Them, to babysit for Them… Taking care and serving others, so that they can work for a pittance, and put at least a small roof over their own children’s heads and a little food on the table. Mi Raza, mi pueblo, trabajador y humilde…

Soon, we approached the trolley and bus line depot located just outside of the Padres baseball stadium, a multimillion dollar edifice that now is pushing poor gente, Africanos y Raza mainly, out of the surrounding areas, through Gentrification… the quiet little plan of forcing entire families further east into less “valuable” real estate… Now, Barrio Logan, one of the oldest, if not the oldest barrio in San Diego, slowly but surely is being transformed into Logan Village, a nicer sounding name in hopes of attracting Them to come and live walking distance from downtown… Convenience. At our expense…

About a block away as the bus neared our last stop, I observed the dozens upon dozens of African homeless persons that were waking up from a chilly night, sleeping on mattresses that were sprinkled about along the sidewalk. I noticed a young woman, brushing her child’s hair, a toddler, that had no idea why they slept on the sidewalk and never even had a roof over her head. The baby was beautiful, her smile touched my soul as she looked straight at me, shaking her little yellow rattle… The baby girl turned an embraced her mother, and the young woman shed a tear as her baby’s giggle swirled into the air…

A young blonde, wearing black and pink Adidas jogging gear, with an Ipod Nano strapped to hear arm, pranced right by the homeless family, and did not even glance over to say Good Morning, almost as if they were not there… How convenient, how easy it is to close your mind, your eyes, to the reality that is splashing right in front of you…

My heart ached…

The driver opened the exit doors as he screeched to a halt at the transfer center depot. I hopped off and felt the chill in the air pick at my skin, I could only imagine how freezing it must have been for the young African woman and her baby the night before… The weight of poverty pressing down upon them…

I tried so hard to not think of them, but I couldn’t, it is this pain that drives my life-long commitment to organize and struggle for El Otro Mundo, a world Sin Ricos Ni Pobres…

I forced my attention to the three beautiful black crows that pranced around the tree branches, swooping down and pecking and picking up the small pieces of pan dulce that a little Chicanito had dropped as he hopped onto the bus I had just gotten off of…

I sat at a little concrete bench, waiting for my next bus to trek in. An elderly woman, Mexicana, carrying two galones de leche, inched her way over to the bench and sat next to me, she gasped and took in a breath, I could see the steam of her warmth evaporate… Her dark, wrinkled hand wrapped around a sparkling, bamboo cane…
Silver, turquoise, and copper rings wrapped around her fingers and I could see a wooden rosario strapped around her neck, worn down from the years and years of praying…

She looked over and I smiled… she stared at me as if she had known me from birth…

“Buenos dias” I muttered…

“Hola mijo” she replied… and at that single moment in time and space, the old scars that lined my heart burst, because she reminded me so much of my abuelita, Micaela.

I asked her how her day was going and she shared with me her troubles, her pains, and she told me how I reminded her of her own son Natividad…

“Te paraces todo a mi hijo” she shared and then she reached over and placed her 76 year old hand, a hand with the scars and blisters of a campesina… my entire world trembled in that instance, as I felt her pain, as I seen tears illuminate her hazel-green eyes… She spoke to me in a soft voice and talked about her son Natividad. She hadn’t seen him in 14 years.

The last time she seen him was in their small pueblo, Pajacuaran, Michoacan, Mexico. A small town nestled at a foothill, with rows and rows of casitas spreading across and away from the placita and the catedral… She spoke of how he had left to El Norte, Los Estados Unidos, to find some work and send money back to his family back in Pajacuaran.

The sadness, in the form of wrinkles on her face, told the entire story in just one glance. Her son, never called, he was supposed to check in once he made into San Diego with some of his uncles that were waiting for him on This Side. Un desaparecido, los Sin Nombre, the unknown and disappeared…

I stared at the elderly woman, and then I imagined her son Natividad, 14 years ago, it was December 22, 1995, where he crossed through the Imperial County desert, forced and funneled by the Wall of the Death and Their Operación and the Migra patrols to walk the treacherous mountain range, with freezing temperatures. Natividad lost his senses, he could not feel his feet or arms, he began to freeze to the core, lost in the Desiertos de Muerte, until finally his warm, loving heart, could not compete with the winter chill… He fell over and closed his eyes…

Remembering when his mom would feed him frijolitos, and smile at him back in Pajacuaran, Michoacan… That was the last he could think of before his soul froze over and took in his Last Breath…

Now, here I was, with his mother, as she looked at me, I felt a sudden feeling come over me to change my convenient plans and that I must offer, “Señora, le puedo ayudar con sus bolsa…”

A gleaming smile came across her face, “Hay mijito, eres un angel, gracias!” she expressed in gratitude for taking the time to help her carry the bag of gallons of milk all the way back to Barrio Logan.

We made our way back, as the smell of tacos cooking, pan dulce baking, and Michoacan-style banda music filling the streets, and we made sure we said Buenos Dias to all of the homeless people that leaned and lined the fences leading toward the Barrio Logan.

Dispatch from the Line No. 5

Hola Mi Gente,

If you all know me by now, aware that I do not by any Holiday gifts, for anyone.

I wrote this Dispatch en route to Los Angeles, and, as I looked out of the train, down into the gutters and riverbeds and back alleys on the way, I seen all of the cardboard-boxed homes…

I thought about the Hidden Hand of our Oppression, that is laced in consumerism… the lie that the freedom to go to Disneyland, to shop at the mall, to have cable, to rent the hotel room lit up by casino lights, etc, is freedom…

I smiled, because I know that sooner or later, or escapism will run dry, and we will face what the rest of the colonized world lives through day by day, living of off of less than $2.00 per day… So enjoy it while you can…

Meanwhile, I do not have a material gifts for you, for I have nothing. What I can give you is everything, my soul, a dance, y un fuerte abrazo Revolucionario…

Tu compa, en lucha siempre, El Chavo

La Especial del Día

El peso de la pobreza,
Me ciega,
Te ciega,
Nos ciega.

No te deja sentir el frío de nuestra realidad,
Te engaña, te alimenta con ilusiónes,
Con sueños enredados en el consumo, de cosas sin valor,
Pero las venden y las compramos,
Regalos de la Muerte, empadas con sudor y sangre.

La Especial del Día al descuento, tu conciencia.

El peso de la pobreza,
Me ciega,
Te ciega,
Nos ciega.

Las luces de sus anuncios,
Te cautivan,
Te motivan,
Te esclavizan,
Se comen tu espíritu con sus tentáculos,
Viscosos y pegajosos.

La Especial del Día al descuento, tu conciencia.

La felicidad temporal nos satisfecha,
Pero pronto se evapora en el cielo,
Se rota, se pudre, y nos destruye,
Sensualmente aniquilando nuestros corazónes…

Nos golpean, nos pegan, rompiendonos en pedazos…

Pero, en el peso de la pobreza,
Descubrimos la musica de resistencia y el canto de revolucion,
Nos mueve al bello ritmo de la vida, caliente y dolorosa…
Los abrazos del el, y los besos de ella, y la dulce verdad…

En el peso de la pobreza,
Existimos,
Resistimos,
y Vencemos…

Quedense con sus monedas,
Nuestra concienza, No esta a la venta..

Today’s Special (English version)

The weight of poverty,
Blinds me,
Blinds you,
Blinds us.

It will never let you feel your true cold reality,
It deceives you, it nourishes you with illusions,
With dreams wrapped in consumption, with worthless things,
They sell them, We buy them.
Gifts of Death, soaked in sweat and blood.

Today’s Special, On Sale! Your Conscious.

The weight of poverty,
Blinds me,
Blinds you,
Blinds us.

Their translucent commercials,
Captivate you,
Motivate you,
Enslave you,
Devouring your spirit, with its tentacles,
Sticky and viscous.

Today’s Special, On Sale! Your Conscious.

Temporary happiness satisfies us,
But it quickly evaporates into the Heavens,
It rots, spoils, and destroys,
Sensually annihilating our hearts.

They strike and hit us, ripping us into pieces.

But, within the weight of poverty,
We discover the music of resistance and the song of revolution,
It moves us to the beautiful rhythms of life, warm and painful…
His embraces and her kisses, and the sweet truth…

Within the weight of poverty,
We exist,
We resist,
and we win…

Keep your Money,
Our conscious is Not for Sale!

Dispatch from the Line No. 6

Memorias Enterradas en Nuestras Almas 1

La escuadrilla de buques gigantescos cubren los rayos del Sol,
Sus velas mayores, adornadas con la cruz, leónes royales y castillos,
Desembarcan los hombres con escudos metálicos con brillo trémulo,
Entrometidos sobre el mar, caminan, marchan, adelante, forjando su existencia,
Sobre la de nosotros….

Memorias Enterradas en Nuestras Almas

El equilibrio del mundo, hilado, metamorfosicado, y pronto denigrado…
Extendidimos nuestra confianza, abrimos nuestras puertas humildes,
Nuestras escrituras esculpidas sobre las piedras sólidas y duras,
Los códices sagrados, destruidos, desaparecidos en los huesos del olvido…
Los avanzes de mi gente, aplastados, borrados, y echados a perder en las ruinas, en el polvo remolinados entre las nubes que bailan entre el paraíso perdido…

Memorias Enterradas en Nuestras Almas

El jade verde y cristalino, que antes brillaba, chispiando sonrisas bajo la luna…
Ahora, esta embarrada en sangre, con lagrimas que se miran caer, penetrando el barro granate, la tinta obscura de semillas tristemente buscando un vacío para descansar…

Pero, resistimos y nuestro sudor y sangre amerizo sobre su piel cuando nuestras piedras, enredadas en el mineral volcánico con la madera, la ilustre obsidian, corta la piel y salpica la sangre derramada flotando en el aire, y despues caendo en los mismos ojos de estos estranjeros…Nuevos enemigos, por los proximos 500 años y mas…

Memorias Enterradas en Nuestras Almas

Miro hacia el Sol, y entran pensamientos… entran pesadillas…
Cuando cariciaban a los infantiles, mientras que su madre se derretiba y desolvia en cenizas, las lagrimas del los nenes rebotaban contra el pecho de la memoria, deslizando y mezclandose entre la mugre y el frío de corazones congelados por la ambición y codicia…

Seres humanos, ahora son extractos y extenuados, empujando su ilustre espada, fría y deslumbrante, tocando y despedazando el pobre corazon de piel… Corazon que no se rinde… La luz… que no se apaga… La Esperanza, El Cambio, Verdadero… mas aya de las Pancartas, mas aya de las consignas, mas aya de la rutina…

Pero, soplan sus enfermadades, sus suspiros venenosos, y poco a poco, empiesa el duro y caloroso genocido del nuestros pueblos… y muy pronto aniquilan el 90% de nuestra gente…

El 10% que sobrevive, que respira, que lucha, somos tu y yo… La sangre de la memoria que corre entre las venas de la historia, el espiritu que nada dentro de nuestro corazón, les enseñara a las próximas generaciones, que no los olividaremos de lo que hicierion…

Memories Buried Within Our Souls 1 (English version)

The fleet of gigantic ships block the rays of the Sun,
Their main sails, adorned with a cross, royal lions and castles,
Men with metallic shields shimmering brightly disembark,
Wading within the ocean, walk, march, forward, forging their existence, Over ours…