Sunday, October 3, 2010

porque nosotros placticamos en cafes en frente de tu NAFTA

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 montaƱas 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. 

Ya basta.

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