Page 24 - GRANADA
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My father cries at my grave why oh my god why! All our ancestors hands linked in sacrificial blood,
the cataclysmic fury of spaniards enveloping
the looted resilience of muisca and taino peoples,
the insecure cosmic lust of genocide painted into every ultimate one of these red white and blue flags
sprawling over all peoples of the caribbean, blanketing the continent in reliable streams of incineration,
toppling colectivos to erect banana republics,
flogging the people as the land as the rivers as the sky,
scorched earth humanitarian aid, imposing sanctions, foaming at the mouth of the river
that leads back to the volcano
that we feel under our skin, as if our ancestors knew that one day
we would need it to finish the work of the diaspora, breathing love, blues as deep as the carribean herself,
making un hogar
wherever our gorgeous shattered spirits should land.
