I am not the memory
of a hard mother's voice
staccatod like gunfire
of, " Why don't you?"
" Why can't you?"
I am the desire
to flow
clear
like a silver river
floating free
like a butterfly
on wings of poetry.
I am not the words
of some catchy corrido
lustily sung
nor the mere rhetoric
written on banners
waved vigorously.
Nor the graffiti
painted along
Che Guevara's likeness
underneath the
international bridge
at Juárez/ El Paso.
I am more
- the tears of women
- the hunger pangs of children
- the red of spilled blood
- youth's undying hope
- a city's
choked- back but blossoming dreams.
I am
the sacred words:
Sobrevivir.
Sobresalir.