The souls are lost in a lament world
The Cries of Yimaya through a purple haze
Drum beats to the rhythms of change
Coconut milk spilling from indigenous lips
Ocean smells upon dampened skin
Forgotten sugar cane with the cracked whip
Taino purity mistaken for ignorance and barbarianism
Wives and mothers turned into whores within the grip of pale skin
Hues of crimson and gold fading into a cold new steel machete
Tears of an almost forgotten past, rich with sun gods
Opening the regal doors to fake caballeros who lust over brown skin
Cilantro’s heavy fragrance lingering in a mist of misunderstood stones
Sounds of crackling fired which burned native blood.
A race faded in a new Castillian rule but never lost amongst the souls of the new,
Boricua always shall I be, with and without the ocean, or language of my people
Spoken upon my silent tongue
Always shining through the retina of my castaños eyes
Constant in my wavy hair and immersed sabor within my hips
Boricua across the seas and on foreign soil
Not Spanish, ni ingles
Claro que si. Enjoyed your words, that fusion of word and history that leaves its imprint on us!
Gracias Ellen. I appreciate you comment. I am glad that you were effect.. I will try to keep inspired and ad more this year.