Mother Mexico By Bill Frayer
She is a beautiful dama. Her dark tragic eyes call to us. Her dark smooth hair flows Over her face, down her back, Reminding me of every mother’s love. Her red lips sing The songs of the Indio, Songs of hope, songs of loss. She lulls me with her stunning beauty, But her allure hides the pain, Hides the tears Hides the bood, All spilled Over the murder Over the pride Over the cruelty, Over her lost sons.
For she was young And full of hope And her beauty was plundered And her chastity stolen By craven men Who could never embrace Her native radiance. She was enslaved and used In the name of fealty and faith, But she was left naked To bake in the sun.
But she was strong. She survived to love again. Wrapped in her new colors, She danced and she sang Late into the night. Her sons swore their solemn oath To stand with her always.
Yet, her sons were proud And they fought to protect her And they bled in her name And they held her up As innocent as Guadalupe, But they slay one another In her name.
And more tears and more blood Flowed into the dust, Down from the mountains And into the hearts Of all her children.
And now, as the music of the Mariachi Echoes in her ears, And the smell of the pork in chili Saturates the air The bitter taste of love lost And promises unkept Quickens her tongue. And the tears and blood Which blur her vision Drip slowly onto her brown feet, As she walks slowly Through her fragrant garden Under the mango tree Into her small cocina To roll the masa, To burn her fingertips On the hot griddle As she makes the tortillas To sustain her grandchildren, Who watch her with love And with fresh eyes, unclouded By betrayal, By the sins of man.
And she serves comida In the cool shadows As she looks over the garden wall At the blood red sun.
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