Ancient Voices

Carried by the wind, the old voice tells me the story of when men, with armor that shined like the sun, entered the plaza and destroyed my people – those who survived became refugees in our own land

The old voice is crying for Tenochtitlan – the old home of the past

I am forced across imaginary borders, dividing lands that belong to the same soil I’ve called home – I’ve become an immigrant

sitting in a cell, drinking my pain
cutting fruit to buy sheets to cover my body
spending nights away from my family to work in a
     stranger’s place
my fierce and lonely ravings charge my anger over living
     a life bruised by hatred
the fragmented rags of my past and present frays as I
     pull at the threads of my emotions to
     disconnect my life from my story – to survive

But the old voice still cries of home

My people are divided by what we cannot have so I forget what I do have
I come from Aztec ancestors – powerful, resourceful, creative –
and I still question if there can ever be a place for me

Where is the old voice from home?

© Copyright October 26, 1997 Alice Aguilar

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