No puedo hablar su idioma, pero
Es fuerte en mi corazón;
Vi a un niño
Y supe entonces que mi corazón era el mismo;
Cruzar la arena o un río es hacer una vida mejor;
Pero ¿es para cambiar la historia o para reclamarla?
¿No hay remedio?
El movimiento del pueblo siempre ha sido así,
Pero lo único que no haremos es el pecado
Y esperan ser perdonados;
Es nuestra decisión y su vida;
Él no pidió ir,
Ahora no puede quedarse;
El río no sabe quién sufre más;
Aún se eleva y cae en el corazón de los indefensos;
La única cultura que tenemos es la que cambia;
Eso es libertad;
El único amor o el odio que es honesto,
Es lo que digo a sus hijos
Para un niño, la vida;
Para su padre, el orgullo;
No soy la ley, en cambio
Soy ligero
Porque elijo la luz;
Pero también soy oscuridad,
Porque me escondo detrás del miedo de estar equivocado,
En vez del valor de la compasión;
La lucha está en nuestro corazón y mente;
Es la forma en que elegimos vivir y morir
Estas personas que cruzan;
¿Por qué están ellos aquí?
Sabemos por qué;
Hay alguien tan fuerte
¿Quién viviría donde no se quieren?
Hay alguien tan débil
¿Quién tendría miedo de sus hijos?

i cannot speak their language, but
it is strong in my heart;
i saw a child
and i knew then that my heart was the same;
to cross the sand or a river is to make a better life;
but is it to change history or to reclaim it?
is there no remedy?
the movement of the people has always been so,
but the one thing we will not do is sin
and expect to be forgiven;
it is our decision and his life;
he did not ask to go,
now he cannot stay;
the river does not know who suffers the most;
still it rises and falls in the hearts of the helpless;
the only culture we have is the one that changes;
that is freedom;
the only love or hate that is honest,
is what i say to their children
for a child, life;
for his father, pride;
i am not the law, instead
i am light,
because i choose light;
but i am also darkness,
because i hide behind the fear of being wrong,
instead of the courage of compassion;
the fight is in our heart and mind;
it is the way we choose to live and die
these people who cross;
why are they here?
we know why;
is there anyone so strong
who would live where they are not wanted?
is there anyone so weak
who would be afraid of their children?

This is the city where I come from
And my folks and before them some
Who left good old Ireland
Yes this is the city where I come from
They came to make their way
They came to see a day
Where they could earn decent pay
To make a new life to be able to say
I am here to stay
I got a yesterday
I got a past
A tomorrow
And for sure a today
Because of the brave ones
Who found this place
Who breathed and lived their dream
The one I now embrace
I thank them with all my heart
Yes it's been a very human race
They came to make their way
They came to stay

In his address to Congress,
The Donald brazenly
revealed plans to spread fear through
a brand new agency.

It will report and list all crimes
by each new immigrant,
to heighten paranoia's spread
amongst the ignorant.

By fanning fiery flames of fear,
the bigots shall rejoice,
and they shall love the agency
that Trump is naming "VOICE".

Victims
Of
Immigration
Crime
Engage­ment

Now, I propose an agency
to give another choice,
that balances the propaganda
to be spread by VOICE...

An agency that recognizes
Donald's vile role
as chief hatemonger of the world.
It shall be named, "A$$HOLE".

American
Sociopathic
S*******
Harming­
Others
Less
Entitled

Today, we marched, or rather, I watched him,
my friend, next to me dream. Of what futures, I'm not
quite aware. Some orange man has overtook
the american government everyone in their right mind
and heart
cried,
and a square in Boston was filled with lively
dreamers
with placards and gleaming eyes and faces
that said no! not again! A few toddlers
sauntered around the feet of their parents
saying and shouting and muttering and playing
with words and slogans they don't understand
yet in their minds,
maybe their hearts,
in them they know. Next to me my friend grabbed
an abandoned placard and I felt lost. I only
came to watch how the words of the orange man
came alight. I was afraid we would catch flame.
A grey-haired woman had earlier skipped across
the crowd in front of us to show us a different route and
told us useful things- we were fresh I had explained-
and we carefully avoided police but there weren't many.
It was cold. Not the orange man. Somehow we
met my friend's friends and we started a chant
in the crowd below us, perched atop a crumbling
history of a church. Pictures were taken. Instagram.
We dabbed to the beat of Hindu chanting and tambourines.
Muslims prayed towards Mecca beneath Christian statues.
Amazed. I felt a certain emptiness.
Then my friend joked,
'I'll make a social justice warrior out of you too!'
Why am I not angry? The orange man is wrong.
A fool, a jester. Yet our testicles are in his hands.
Sometimes, rarely, I feel a meager sad frightening pressure
between my legs. Some have already been castrated
in confused airports. Accidents of birth have left them
stranded in a great barren womb of this world. What
is a state? A foreign policy? Man? Woman? Child?
How much time do I have left to ***? On whose
face can I do it on? Is the orange man aiming for
mine? Ours? The veiled woman? Is the immigration
counter camera pornographic? What awkward things
to do with one's time. One's body. One's mind.
One's heart.
I am ashamed.
Instead of working, I am thinking. I am lazy.
I spend scholarship money in restaurants
away from the college dining hall so that the noise
around me will be something I cannot recognize.
Still both are the same bubbles of safety. Different
stages of cocooning is all. I am a caterpillar surrounded
by butterflies eating steak and salmon. I am ugly. So ugly.
Nothing beautiful at all.

Be it legal or against the law do it responsibly.
I am peaceful but First things first this isn't a democracy.
Americans thirst for a social utopian ideology.
But they settle for copious amounts of frozen philosophy.
It isn't regal. Americans Constantly Insisting comradery.

They rode upon rising swells of hope
Every culture with its own dream
But we couldn’t sleep together
So our nightmares became mean

The ocean is not wide enough to stop a wave

He didn’t lengthen time, just the distance
It takes an illness to build that high of a wall
The thick became thin in a simple mind
Violins can no longer play nor a child’s doll

The sky is not high enough for clouds to disappear

Is it power or compassion that makes a decision
We can’t wave a hand like a beautiful woman can
The stretch marks on his head swelled with pride
While the church decides what to say to the man

The milky way is not bright enough to last the day

We imprisoned a man without telling him why
We told his mother we are afraid of her baby
We told a prophet he was not the one we believe
We told God that faith is not about a nations safety

We assume grace will ignore our unforgiving fear

A door
of trust
there may
open this
floodgate as
more orientals
come to
America again
in hopes
that their
meeting now
succumb as
such their
people live
well here
and want
eqaul pay.

Once there was an end of the war in sight,
they built their John Steinbeck ship,
hoisted the Ayn Rand flag
and sailed to the promised land.

Upon the dulcet shore, there she was,
their old enemy, cinnamon arms wide open in welcome.

Blood and spit foaming at the corners of her mouth,
she said,
kindness isn't a two-way street.