When Cloth slips from Lips
Ringing in ears, gurgling of valley stream
Chiapas speaks her own language
the language of centuries old traditions
of wool skirts and clay births
but we were listening to fiesta bells, too.
We saw him hold you, want you
pull you to him
him holding papeles from Blankita towers
where was the blanket of corn?
she knew the language of maize
but now she sits in silence
lips sown shut and hands mangled
Rancheros kiss soft thighs
while we once braided your hair with ribbons.
Familia. Did you promise us bread?
We cast baskets for armas
we will never forget our reality.
We, children of the night have seen
mothers turned to stone
but now we have nothing to lose
ya basta, mama
the montañas are not our defense anymore
our voices will be heard.
I wrote the name CHIAPAS
on a piece of cloth
and tied it in my heart
we tie black cloth over our faces.
We the children of the night
are ready to ripen.
Chingadas, violated? I think not.
Ya basta, mama.