The Tepeyac Mountain beckons.
There in the Valley of Guadalupe,
my mother comes, kneeling, crawling;
her manda a lamentation, a cry.
Her son has gone to El Norte.
Her daughter lost in the desert.
While the Matachines dance in rhythmic motion.
Theirs is a movement without time and space.
Sacred: Santo, Santo, Santo.
These are the dreams of faith.
To sing: Holy, Holy, Holy.
The promises of an ancient Israel.
Una Tierra Santa: Jerusalén.
In this place.
The land gives rise to pyramids and gods;
cosmic creatures and forces fill the senses.
The firmament brings forth Quetzalcóatl,
the feathered serpent, creeping,
announcing the one to come.
La Virgencita appears.
Crushing darkness, pregnant with sublime joy.
Radiant like the sun, moon and stars.
No more lies.
Only the truth:
We have arrived,
broken, with hearts full of hope;
calloused hands holding tight to the red roses.
Our journey is not mute, silent or cold.
We are in the presence of enfolding arms.
She has been waiting for a long, extended moment.
We hear the birds and smell the flowers,
we feel at home.
© 2019 F. Javier Orozco