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We were born in Ciudad Rodeado de Fuego
Our fears are cooled by the stars in between
We belong because this is our door to heaven
In the soil we bury our dead beneath the green

We are as old as the eyes are deep in our women
Hope is as alive as the laughter of our children
We live our lives at the end of a string of pearls
We reach out but they pass us by like pilgrims

A row of maze like a long fuse burning to the end
It is our life, long enough to live for God’s purpose
But who would know us, we make our own history
We fight for our bien tierra, plowing into its surface

Speaking at the fire, he told us of his dreams
Were they his ancestors or his life pasado?
The one who chose our fate knows tomorrow
Is it his will that we will pass to the otro lado?

The moths are drawn to the flame of our comida
Our copper jewelry is sacred to those who wear
It is because the same hands that made them
Laid wood upon the graves to mark them there

The coyotes do not care that we bring our pais
We do not tell our children of their curse of fate
We are so many, does God care about our life?
Why is it so easy for those who eat well to hate?


Mark Lecuona (author) from Austin, Texas on January 31, 2018:

Thank you Shyron. I am always gratified when something that I write results inspires a poem or a prosaic response.

Shyron E Shenko from Texas on January 30, 2018:

Poignant and beautiful poem

It may seem that God does not care

For the poor and down trodden there

But, I truly believe He does care about

The burdens that we all bear

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