I am what others left.
I’m the things that weren’t robbed.
I’m the scraps of a junkyard.
I’m the miles that weren’t jogged.
I am a little village
In the peak of some mountains.
My skin is leather
And supports any standards.
I am farm labor dedicated to your service.
I am the sun that rises,
And the day that dies nervous.
I am development in bone and flesh.
I am the picture of thousands missing
And their blood that’s still fresh.
I am Pele against England
Scoring two goals.
I walk on the world’s spine,
And rupture many soles.
I am what my father thought me:
He who doesn’t love his country,
Doesn’t love his mother.
I am manual labor
And I do it with great pride.
Here, we share,
And what you have is mine.
My town doesn’t drown
In the sea of your lies.
And if my church is destroyed,
my faith still survives.
I do not blink
And you shall remember my name
I forgive
But never forget who I am.
I am a nomad without destiny.
Negativity doesn’t stop me,
Negativity is my ecstasy.
I committed to travel the continent
without a compass, without time, without agenda.
Inspired by the legends
With stories trapped in tales and a moon without gender.
I learned how to speak and write
And with one common language
Became the world’s fright.
I learned my country still prays
Because the authority and royalty
Still operates under our poverty.
I learned to drink depression
With tequila and cerveza.
And that our own politicians
Have nothing en la cabeza.
To immigrate is my sport.
And even though you don’t fear me,
I can take you on your home court.
I am an intruder
With the reputation of an inmate,
Yet they still want me to support them
And develop the world’s hate.
But Abuela don’t worry
La virgen de Guadalupe
Is the one that knows my story.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 12:12 PM UTC