Poem
From Aztlán's mythic shores, our wandering was done.
We did not beg the naming of this sun-scarred sand.
Long before their carabelas learned the sea’s dark trade,
The gods themselves in Teotihuacan had been displayed.
My ancestors, the Mexica, found the promised stone,
Where the proud eagle tore the snake upon a throne
Of Nopal. Tenochtitlan, the lake’s bright, shimmering crown,
A city great in splendor, before it was cast down.
Our faith was the foundation, the armor round the heart,
Huitzilopochtli’s fierce command, to tear the dark apart.
We were successful, yes, our altars high and red,
Our military might, by spiritual fire fed.
The land was ours, held by blood and prophecy’s decree,
A strength unbroken, vast, and terrifyingly free.
But treachery within cuts deeper than the serpent’s tooth,
As history repeats, and blinds us to the truth.
The downfall was not metal, not cannon smoke alone,
But the faith betrayed, the seeds of division sown.
A pale, bearded prophet, a promise of renewal,
And my own raza, yielding power to the cruel.
It was the Tlaxcalteca who saw a liberation,
Where ancestors saw dread, risking their whole nation.
The splitting of the vine, the empire’s cruelest schism,
The triumph of the lie, erosion of patriotism.
The pantheon destroyed, replaced by unfamiliar god,
Leaving the nation's heart beneath a conqueror's rod.
The land that was stolen once,
Beneath the sun and a cross.
But the pure-blood thieves' hunger is never satisfied.
The half-blood knows the wound, on every border side.
Born of Conquistador blood, and spirit they could not break,
I see the second theft, the wealth that they would take.
This arid dust beneath my feet, the land they call Texas,
Another slice of stolen Earth, where the old war vexes.
Mestizo, living in the shadow of a criminal eye,
My heritage is crime, the birthright is a lie.
In their new, gleaming kingdom, it is proven every day
That the Mexican is guilty until the innocent pays.
From ruins of the temple, from dust of forgotten walls,
The ancestral spirit answers the memory that calls.
It is the Colibrí, transformed from warrior's strife,
Returning on a sunbeam, a flicker of eternal life.
Delicate wing, unbroken will, born of the cosmic cycle,
Hovering now above the wall, a living miracle.
Huitzilopochtli, God of Will, whose sun must rise again,
I ask this small, hummingbird wake the teyolia of men.
Enlighten them to see the enemy standing near,
And from their hearts strike that fear.
Let ancient fire guide us, not the division’s blight,
To win the internal war of identity and light.
Let the hummingbird’s shadow fall, make this truth profound
That this is not property, this is stolen sacred ground.
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