¿En qué momento nos convertimos en la tierra de los desiguales?

Tierra forjada sobre las espaldas cansadas de quienes llegaron con manos vacías y un corazón lleno de esperanza.

¿En qué instante olvidamos
que nuestra belleza nació
del mestizaje de las madres que nos parieron, de lenguas distintas que aprendieron a abrazarse, de cantos y sabores que cruzaron mares?

Aunque robada, esta tierra fue soñada, recreada en la utopía
de que aquí los sueños podían tocar el cielo.
Pero hoy me pregunto…
¿Dónde estás, tierra de oportunidades?
¿En qué rincón te escondiste?
¿O te borraron las huellas para que nadie más te encuentre?

Y aun así, te busco.
Te nombro en cada idioma que me habita.
Planto semillas en el asfalto
para que un día vuelvas a florecer.
No me rindo.
Porque mientras haya voces que reclamen tu nombre,
la tierra perdida
podrá volver a encontrarse.

When did we become
the land of the unequal?

A land forged on the weary backs
of those who arrived with empty hands and hearts full of hope.

At what moment did we forget
that our beauty was born from the blending of the mothers who bore us, from different tongue
//learning to embrace, from songs and flavors that crossed oceans?

Though stolen, this land was dreamed, rebuilt in the utopia
that here, dreams could reach the sky.

But today I ask…

Where are you, land of opportunity?

In what corner have you hidden?
Or have your footprints been erased so no one else can find you?

And still, I search for you.
I call your name in every language I carry.

I plant seeds in the asphalt
so one day you will bloom again.

I will not give up.
Because as long as voices cry out your name, the lost land
can be found once more.

Today I am...
thinking without thinking,
where I come from //
and where I'm going.

My heart buries itself
in my beautiful island,
and cries //
not knowing if I'll ever touch its sands again or if I'll ever return to its soil!

But I know
that the palms remember me,
because even though far away...
I am root!

And the song of the coquí //
in the distance,
sings to me and tells me—
that I still belong there.

Because I carry in my skin
the sun of Borinquen,
in my eyes,
the blue of its sea,

in my dreams,
its cobblestone streets...
and in my laughter
its drums!
ringing!
ringing!

"Who am I? Who am I?
Every moment I ask myself:
Who am I?

My identity is lost
in moments of doubt.
Do I want to be me...
or do I prefer to belong?

In those moments
when I try to express
what I feel
and the words
can't be found,
I put on masks—
they project what's acceptable about me,
but they don't show
my vulnerabilities.

My mind and my heart
come into conflict.
Because in truth
I am a country bumpkin,
but the world requires
me to be "that girl
that overcame her circumstances."

At what point did I become so concerned
with what I thought
I should be,
that I gave up my identity
because I didn't want to be?"

Poetry is a soul that bleeds without fear.
It’s the sigh that never dared to shout,
the tear that falls even when no one sees it,
the question that stays alive
even without an answer.

Do I pretend to write “poetry,”
or am I spilling the feelings of my heart,
the thoughts that rise uninvited
like waves against my mind?

Do these lines dress themselves in rhyme
to impress the ear—
or are they the raw threads
of truth I dare not speak aloud?

Sometimes I don’t know if I’m crafting words,
or if the words are crafting me—
pulling from a place so deep
I only find it when I close my eyes.

Here I am, with my soul split in two//
one half made of hot sand and the other of foreign concrete.

I speak in two languages, but dream in one, and sometimes I get lost in silences that cannot be translated.

There I am "the one who left."
Here "the one who is not from here"//
I belong everywhere, and I never belonged anywhere.

My roots pull me like waves to the shore//
but my steps have learned to walk without a fixed map.