Poem
This arid dust beneath my feet, the land they call Texas,
Another slice of stolen Earth, where the old war vexes.
Chicano living in the shadow of a criminal eye,
My heritage is a crime; the birthright is a lie.
In their new, gleaming kingdom, it is proven every day
That the Mexican is guilty until the innocent pay.
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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