Sometimes I forget
the color of my skin
the divisions drawn on maps
the money and title expectations
the wars, the news, the schools
Sometimes,
I forget.
In those days I am free, I laugh, I dance
In those days tears are not salty
Darkness not an enemy
Gunpowder not a disease
My feet are light and I walk barefooted
no footprints on the mud
for the past does not exist
I see your drawings on the street
whispering sighs of aerosol spray
souls of pink chalk and midday heat
Do you remember smelling the rain of the city?
Do you remember raining the city of the smell?
Flags are mythology
Fear an old wives’ tale
Home a path we share
Sometimes I forget
the melody of their blades
the speeches of their courts
the anthems of their blood
the brutality of their age
Sometimes,
I forget.
In those days I make up history
a history of touch
a history of mirrors dressed in beauty
Who are you with no name, no face, no weight?
I mother I brother I daughter
We the witches
We the forest
Beware the executioners:
TV shows and magazines!
If you are blind will I be your enemy?
Take this curse away from me
If you are blind will I be your friend?
Smash your wrath of chromatic feud
In the night we hide
We hide from the world
Catch us
Sometimes I forget
the accent of my tongue
the direction of my prayers
the numbers of my scale
the color of my skin
Sometimes,
I forget.
And then I remember.
Balam Quitzé
© Efrén Cruz Cortés