Rosa Maria, just an ordinary girl for the city of Morelia
By day she sold hot food to the tradesmen who passed by her
To the tourists who traveled to see Rosa’s culture
Then go home rest her head in the creases of a pillow in a little house in Morelia
The tradesmen they would come and they would go, to her favorites she’d slip them some extra to take home
Eventually they kept coming back for more
But it wasn’t the hot food, they were coming for
Rosa Maria met this man who was 5 foot 8
His smile made her heart beat fast and her body ache
He never gave nothing much away
but met her from work each and every day
Grammar was something he was never good at,
But he talked the talk and that was all that he needed to get Rosa Maria
Then she no longer wanted fun
But some strong arms to keep her safe
The man with the kind smile he ran away
her solace she found in Santuario de Guadalupe
In the coming months beneath the Mexican sun
Rosa struggled along but it was no longer fun
She was with baby, the doctors say
She grew bigger and bigger with each day
They told her 9 months is all you have
Then you’ll hold this baby in your arms
But it’s a gift she didn’t want but was stuck inside
Now these nights she dreams of her smiling man and she cries
The bump that she once looked upon as a curse
Became the most sacred thing tucked beneath her shirt
Her skin stretched leaving less between them
She just lay there in her room making promises to him
Everything that was once easy now seemed harder to do
She placed her hands on her belly and cried
“everythign i do in life i'll do for you
so you can have a better life than I had
I’ll be your momma and I’ll be your dad”
8 months fly and the panic set in, each day she prayed to Mary for him
For the child to who she was a carriage for the last 8 months
Give me the strength Mary to be a mum
She was only about 8 and a half gone; the red stretched lines across her skin were long
Homage to the journey that together we made, before her eyes shut tight each night she still prays
she said I don’t remember what happened between those days
from my body my baby was taken away
Placed in my arms, your tiny palms reach out for me, do I have the strength to be your mum ? I’m just Rosa Maria
There’s a hollow way deep inside of me, a baby I’ve lost but before me I see
He’s lying and crying, he’s crying for me, But I’m not your mum, my baby’s still inside, I feel
The bump she used to carry had nearly all gone
But she wanted it back, there must be something wrong
Once more she cradled her baby in her arms, rests him gently upon the skin he used to call home
Lay her head back, and stroked his soft black hair
Kissed his lips searching for the love that’s there
In a small house with wooden floors and crumpling plaster walls
Dark clouds gather the rain hard it falls
In a small corner of Morelia

En un rincón del salón crepuscular
O al volver una esquina en la hora indecisa y blasfema,
O una mañana parecida a un navío atado al horizonte,
O en Morelia, bajo los arcos rosados del antiguo acueducto,
Ni desdeñosa ni entregada, centelleas.

El telón de este mundo se abre en dos.
Cesa la vieja oposición entre verdad y fábula,
Apariencia y realidad celebran al fin sus bodas,
Sobre las cenizas de las mentirosas evidencias
Se levanta una columna de seda y electricidad,
Un pausado chorro de belleza.
Tú sonríes, arma blanca a medias desenvainada.
Niegas al sueño en pleno sueño,
Desmientes al tacto y a los ojos en pleno día.
Tú existes de otro modo que nosotros,
No eres la vida pero tampoco la muerte.
Tú nada más estás,
Nada más fulges, engastada en la noche.

Ya la provincia toda
reconcentra a sus sanas hijas en las caducas
avenidas, y Rut y Rebeca proclaman
la novedad campestre de sus nucas.
Las pobres desterradas
de Morelia y Toluca, de Durango y San Luis,
aroman la Metrópoli como granos de anís.
La parvada maltrecha
de alondras, cae aquí con el esfuerzo
fragante de las gotas de un arbusto
batido por el cierzo.
Improvisan su tienda
para medir, cuadrantes pesarosos,
la ruina de su paz y de su hacienda.
Ellas, las que soñaban
perdidas en los vastos aposentos,
duermen en hospedajes avarientos.
Propietarios de huertos y de huertas copiosas,
regatean las frutas y las rosas.
Con sus modas pasadas
y sus luengos zarcillos
y su mirar somero,
inmútanse a los brillos
de los escaparates de un joyero.
Y después, a evocar la sandía tropa
de pavos, y su susto manifiesto
cuando bajaban por aquel recuesto...
¡Oh siestas regalonas,
melindre ante la jícara que humea,
soponcio ante la recua intempestiva
que tumba las macetas de las pardas casonas;
lotería de nueces,
y Tenorio que flecha el historiado
postigo de las rejas antañonas!
Paso junto a las lentas fugitivas: no saben
en su desgarbo airoso y en su activo quietismo,
la derretida y pura
compensación que logra su ostracismo
sobre mi pecho, para ellas holgadamente
hospitalario, aprensivo y munificente.
Yo os acojo, anónimas y lentas desterradas,
como si a mí viniese
la lúcida familia de las hadas,
porque oléis al opíparo destino
y al exaltado fuero
de los calabazates que sazona
el resol del Adviento, en la cornisa
recoleta y poltrona.