42

For my 42nd birthday, I visited a hummingbird sanctuary and the Saguaro National Park in Tucson, Arizona.  I have made the commitment to find the magic in (my) life, to continuously feel connected to the beauty that surrounds me, and to unrestrictedly experience the abundance of the universe.  This is the greatest gift I can give myself.

 

Write Your Song

write

Write, even when it feels

your fingers are

suffocating, buried beneath

impenetrable feelings.

 

Write, even when the

paper bleeds as

the wounds are exasperated

by each stroke.

 

Write, so you

can see your soul

sculpted in

every letter.

 

Write, so you

can shed the

shameful skin that

binds you to guilt.

 

Write, as if each word

is an antidote.

Write, as if forgiveness

is at the edge of

every page.

.

Write, until the hummingbird

be stills his wings

at the sight of the very

last flower.

 

Write, until the stars

have crystalized

and diamonds take their

place in the sky.

 

Write, as an

expression of

your existence.

 

Write, as if

every slope is

an inhale, every

dip an exhale.

How Do You Fly?

How do you fly

when you’re not used to flying?

How do you reach for the sky

when it so profound?

How do you discover your wings

when you’ve never been told you have them?

How do you emerge from your own power

 And glide from your soul?

.

How do you reach the sky

when you are trapped by a glass ceiling

                                                or even worse, a mirror?

How do you fly when you’re so afraid

 your wings will be clipped?

Clipped with judgment and criticism

Clipped with thoughts of

.

You’re not good enough

You’re not smart enough

You don’t have what it takes

.

How do you fly

when your wings have never fluttered?

How do you fly

and reach that which lies within?

.

How do you fly

When, sometimes,

All you see is the ground?

How?

          Hoooowwww?

                            Hooooooooooooowwwwwwwww?!!

Then I became a hummingbird and

 I flew.
“Once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.”
― Leonardo da Vinci

un-Mexican: In Search of Truth Part 2

In The Tortilla Curtain, a novel by T.C. Boyle,  Delany a “liberal humanist” who lives in a gated community on top of Topanga Canyon in the hills above Malibu hits an undocumented worker with his car as he is coming back from recycling glass bottles, which he took careful effort to separate by color.

Candido, an undocumented worker who lives in a makeshift hut in the Topanga Canyon, does not want the police to get involved for fear of being deported.  Delaney is afraid of ruining his perfect driving record and an increase in his insurance premiums.    “Candido is in very bad shape, with blood seeping out of his mouth, a torn left sleeve and arm, and a shredded left side of his face. In addition to the tortillas, Cándido has a grocery bag, which is now torn by pieces of glass and wet with orange soda. He is in very bad shape, groaning, barely able to stand and unable to focus his eyes.”  Though Candido is badly injured, to soothe his conscience, Delaney gives him $20 and drives away.

That is the image I confronted as I wondered why I had only given Lourdes $20; I was the “liberal humanist” soothing my conscience.  For weeks I could not take her or the incident out of my mind; a sense of guilt and pain loomed within like fog.

I have discovered that the world is a mirror, and through it I have the opportunity to learn about aspects of myself that otherwise would continue to exist unrecognized.  This was a very difficult concept to accept for it forced me to look at each experience internally rather than externally.  I had to take accountability for all the experiences in my life, and realize that even if I wasn’t a direct cause, I was still a participant in everything that occurred to me and within me.  Shakti Gawain says the mirror process is based on the following two premises:

  1. I assume that everything in my life is my reflection, my creation; there are no accidents or events that are unrelated to me.  If I see or feel something, if it has any impact on me, then my being has attracted or created it to show me something.  If it didn’t mirror some part of myself, I wouldn’t even be able to see it.
  2. I try never to put myself down for the reflections I see.  Everything is a gift that brings me to self-awareness.  I try to maintain a compassionate attitude toward myself and my learning process. 

What did Lourdes mirror within me?  What did I see in her that was a reflection of me?  Vulnerability.  Lourdes was a reflection of my vulnerability; the fear of rejection and abandonment that abides in the little girl inside of me.   Seeing her marginalization from society evoked painful childhood emotions that were a product of the instability and uncertainty I lived as a child – and the poverty. There were many times in which hopelessness loitered in our lives – no one to come rescue us.  Lourdes, like millions, will never be rescued from her poverty.  My grandmother’s birth certificate was my “lottery ticket” – she was born in Texas.

What I also saw, was my participation in structures and institutions that create and perpetuate the structural violence responsible for the conditions and oppression of Lourdes and so many like her.  This is why I was confronted with the image from The Tortilla Curtain.   When I choose to pay cheaper prices for a product like green onions without having awareness of where the product comes from, I participate in the perpetuation of structural violence.

Paul Farmer, a physician and anthropologist who has made it his mission to transform health care on a global scale by focusing on the world’s poorest and sickest communities, defines structural violence as “the invisible structures of modern society [that] divide humanity into the impoverished and the affluent denying large percentages of the world’s population access to” the opportunities and resources that those who are privileged have (An Anthropology of Structural Violence).

Because of international economic policies like NAFTA, many American agricultural companies are exporting their farms to places like Mexicali where they are able to pay workers as little as $0.57 per hour, but where a gallon of milk costs $2.20.  In other words, a worker has to work half his/her shift to earn enough money to buy milk. American companies benefiting from NAFTA, “despite the law, pay less than minimum wage, with no taxes, health insurance or retirement benefits [and] are now estimated to employ over half the workers in Mexico (Mexican Miners Fight Privatization in Revolutionary Cananea).  This of course is no different from the sweatshops in Asia, which manufacture so many of the products I enjoy sold at stores with mottos like “Expect More. Pay Less. and Save Money.  Live better.”  At whose expense do I get to live better?  In my pursuit of the American Dream and the comfortable lifestyle I have come accustomed to, what dominant structures have I turned a blind eye to?

The pain, guilt, and shame continued to loom.  I kept questioning why I had only given Lourdes $20.  I continued to probe in the places that made me uncomfortable, even in the places I wasn’t being honest with myself, but it became a guilt-inflicted process in which martyrdom and victimization would over shadow the true lessons the universe wanted me to learn about myself.   I came to realize that in many ways I was like Delany in The Tortilla Curtain, an American in my own invisible gated community of comfort and privilege who had become unmindful of the plight of the have-nots.  It’s one thing to read about it or hear about it, and it’s another to confront it within you.

Once when discussing with my daughter Carmen why it was always only a small group of people who effected change, she responded from her personal observations that people tend to stand up for injustice until it becomes a burden on their sense of comfort or safety.  That day I gave Lourdes $20 because giving her more would have meant I would have had to sacrifice how I had planned to spend my money.   There I was with my expensive camera and my indulging display of food and I couldn’t bring myself to offer her everything I had.  I realized later, that my spirit wanted to give her more, but my form was afraid that by giving her everything I had, I would experience the same sense of instability and uncertainty I had experienced when I was a child.  My form had learned to compensate for that fear with the things that brought me a sense of comfort.

Not only were the pain, the guilt, and the shame coming from my having to admit my participation in structural violence, I began to realize that the compassion I thought I was feeling was really a reflection of the parts of me I had not yet healed.  Compassion does not come from a place of guilt or pain.  Compassion is a selfless emotion from which the drive to help someone is rooted in love for that person, not pain for oneself.  I finally understood that as I use the mirror to heal, I would begin to channel divine energy to truly help heal the world.

I will make a greater impact on those whom I make a connection with when I radiate love and light.  I know  in this state of being, I will no longer have to struggle with what action to take, because I will begin to trust that the universe is guiding me in the manner in which I am aligning with my purpose.  This also means that as my form continues to align with my spirit, I will have to have compassion for myself, because my form will sometimes be guided by fear, and I will just have to learn to forgive myself as I continue to learn to trust my spirit and the universe.  “. . . when I’m trusting and being myself as fully as possible, everything in my life reflects this by falling into place easily, often miraculously” (Shakti Gawain).

What I am also learning is that this is a time of tremendous transformation and spiritual awakening in my life.  It is also a great time of uncertainty because my ego is not in control anymore.  I am learning to completely surrender to the divine wisdom within.  From what I have experienced so far in my spiritual journey, I know that the more I surrender “to and move with the spirit, the more enlightened and empowered it will become” (Shakti Gawain).  I also know that I cannot force my form to trust my spirit through will, for this is when guilt and fear take over the process.  Nothing one does that truly aligns with the universe should ever feel like a sacrifice or forced.  If and when I am truly channeling the light of the universe, I am filled with love, compassion, and trust.  What I am doing is becoming more aware of my emotions, observing the process I am undergoing, and being honest with myself.  When I feel fear or guilt or uncertainty within, I sit with those feelings and learn to accept them as part of my transformation.

This doesn’t mean that I won’t continue to question and probe and challenge myself through the transformation.  I have learned in my Yoga practice that if I push too hard, my body will have a tendency to resist.  Instead, I use my breath to make the space I am holding more comfortable and with love slowly melt into the form I want to achieve.

Like the soul of the hummingbird, in being I am doing what I was always meant to do.

Thank you Parminder for your spiritual guidance and light.

un-Mexican: Between Two Colliding Truths Part 1

This past May David, Carmen and I decided to take a day trip to Ensenada, Baja California.  As we arrived there was this magnificent flag waving its pride with glorious honor;  A flag that seemed as foreign to me as I seemed to this country I am from.

Our first stop was at the fish market.  We found a picturesque row of fondas (small restaurants) with dining tables vibrantly draped in plastic table clothes.  We sat and began to order from an enticing menu of fresh seafood.

Una cancíon señorita?  Unos arêtes, un collar, algo que le guste?  One by one the musicians and vendors kept coming recognizing in us an opportunity to earn their livelihood.

To most of them I responded No Gracias as we sat there feasting on what I soon realized was an indulging display of food.

They count on people like us (tourists) to pay their rent and provide some sustenance for their family in a country where jobs are scarce and foreign-owned maquiladoras, export assembly plants, provide miserable salaries and working conditions. Maquiladoras are owned by U.S., Japanese, and European countries and some could be considered “sweatshops” composed of young women working for as little as 50 cents an hour, for up to ten hours a day, six days a week. (Misery of the Maquiladoras, 2011).

How did I get to have so much power over the lives of others?  For me NO was just a simple decision based on whether I liked or wanted to purchase and item.  No for “them” was the difference between having food on the table or scraping by on air.  I felt so privileged, so American, so much more distant to a land that I am from.  My daughter asked me what was wrong; she could see the struggle on my face.  I couldn’t quite articulate that I saw myself in each person.  I knew that if I had never come to the United States, I would not have the privilege I enjoy now.  I would have been a vendor, a farm worker like my grandmother, or perhaps a worker at a maquiladora.  And certainly my daughter would not be attending a private institution like American University.

“I feel so un-Mexican” is all I could respond.  But it was more than that.  There was a sense of betrayal.  I had come to the United States and forgotten the spirit and struggle of the ones I had left behind.  This wasn’t the first time I had been confronted with the poverty and despair of Mexico, but this was the first time I confronted my privilege.

As the Universe would have it, a few minutes after I told Carmen how unMexican I felt, a woman standing behind us asked if there was any change we could spare so that she could buy her little girls something to eat.  And there at that very instant, as I was feasting on a banquet of seafood, I came face to face with my privilege.

In front of me was a woman with neglected hair lazily cascading down the sides of her face.  Almond skin weathered by the unforgiving desert sun.  A dusty and discolored crimson shirt slumped over stained pants.  A child on her hip and another holding on to her right hand.  Eyes of shame shielded by determination to feed her children.  I invited her to have a seat with us.  Amidst the silence of discomfort that occurs when two conflicting truths collide, I passed her the menu and told her to order whatever she wanted.

Lourdes had hitchhiked approximately 90 miles from Mexicali to Ensenada.   The summers are merciless in the Mexicali desert for agricultural workers, so she works in the green onion farms of Ensenada during the summers.  She explained she must harvest, clean and rubber band 50 dozen onion bundles for a pay of $100 pesos, approximately $7.50 U.S. dollars for a full day’s work.  One of our meals alone was $10.00 dollars.

Growers in Salinas and Watsonville, who also farm green onions in the Mexicali Valley, include Fresh Choice, Frank Capurro, VegaMix and Nunes Farms. Arizona-based Phoenix Vegetable Growers has moved across the border, as has Muranaka, which comes from Oxnard.

As we were talking, a group of boys with back packs passed by.  It dawned on me that the school year was not over yet.  Unlike my daughter, the two little girls were not in school and are probably destined to continue to work the circuit with their mother, like my mother did with my grandmother from the time she was four years old.  The following is an excerpt from “Child Labor – The Hidden Harvest of Mexico’s Export Farms” written by David Bacon:

The soft conversations of hundreds of people, sitting in the rows next to great piles of scallions, fills the air. The vegetable’s pungent scent is everywhere.  Small toddlers wander among the seated workers, some of them nursing on baby bottles, and others, their faces smeared with dirt, chewing on the onions. A few sleep in the rows, or in little makeshift beds of blankets in the vegetable bins.  A closer look reveals that the toddlers are not the only children in this field. As the morning sun illuminates the faces of the workers, it reveals dozens of young girls and boys. By rough count, perhaps a quarter of the workers here are anywhere from 6 or 7 years old to 15 or 16.

According to David Bacon there are an estimated 3,000 children working in the green onion harvest of Mexicali Valley alone.  Most of these farms have contracts with major U.S. growers but deny that there are children working in the fields. “Joint ventures between Mexican and U.S. growers, producing for the United States, European and Japanese markets, are achieving greater competitiveness at the cost of children working in the fields.” 

Lourdes explained that children weren’t allowed in the farms any longer because too many incidents of children being run over and killed with tractors had been reported.  Lourdes has nowhere to leave her children, and the more green onions she harvests the more money she can make, so she has no other alternative but to impel her little girls to low wages and meager working conditions.  The crew foremen just turn a blind eye.

Just across the border these little girls would have the opportunity to reach unimaginable dreams.  They could become the first in their family to graduate from a free public school with opportunities to apply for scholarships and attend a university.   But in a country where doctors are washing dishes and a family in the fields can make more than an educated person, they will never know what it means to fulfill their personal legend.  Colliding truths.

I wondered what unrequited dreams this old man contemplated. I had seen the look on his face on my grandmother’s face so many times.

They devoured their fish tacos and gulped down their drinks.  Before they left, I handed the woman $20 dollars.  Que Dios la bendiga I said gently as she gathered her daughters to continue toward her destination.  As we saw them disappear in the hustle and bustle of the fish market, my daughter put her hands over her face and sobbed inconsolably.  Colliding truths.  This time, there was nothing I could do to make her feel better.  I sat there, ashamed, questioning why I had only given Lourdes $20 dollars.

Tattoos and Marriage

Are suppose to be permanent.

              The first time I got a tattoo, I got it in a garage.  Homemade tattoo machine – the kind created by unobstructed boredom in prison – made from parts of an electric pencil sharpener.  Ink from a Bic ballpoint pen, and stainless steel wire disinfected with a lighter; wiped down with alcohol.  I took two shots of tequila before straddling the metal folding chair where this work of art was to take place.  I wanted a rose with a ribbon wrapped around its stem that read, “Rest in Peace Alex” in honor of my brother who had died a year before from a gunshot wound to his heart.  I sat there and felt the stabbing of rose thorns as my ass squirmed and made screeching sounds and the tattoo guy worked his magic with machine on one hand and cigarette on the other.   By now, your lips should have an incredulous gap between them.  By the time I got home, the rose stretched the length of the left side of my upper and mid back.  It was permanent, and like my brother’s death, there was no turning back.

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   The second time I got a tattoo, I tattooed Carmen’s sperm donor’s name near my crotch.  Did you just fall off your seat?!  I know this one really deserves a, “What the FUCK were you thinking?!?!?!?!”  Want to stay on the floor?  The same guy that tattooed my rose, tattooed my baby daddy’s name.  And yes, that time too, he was holding a cigarette on the other hand. Need to walk away and SYH (Shake Your Head) – completely understand, no hurt feelings here.

                 So what got me to tattoo a guy’s name next to my crotch, out of all places?  Stupidity.   The idea that a guy could complete me.  I had constructed in my mind a fairy tale of the romanced girl who is loved and venerated into a Disney-mirage of happiness.  I had never been a princess, and I saw the opportunity to be the sexy vampiress that kept my prince’s interest in me by arousing his wild, sexual desires. Even then I was confronted with the dichotomy of the polite and obedient marriageable princess and the edgier, sexually fierce vampiress – both necessary to keep my man [happy].  I thought he’d find the tattoo alluring, and me, sexually irresistible.  His name on my flesh was an affirmation that he was coming back (Navy, stationed in the East Coast) to rescue my daughter and me.  All those fucking Mexican novelas didn’t help to contrast these illusory roles I had bought into either.  Interestingly enough, no man had ever rescued the women in my family; they had used their own strength to live; however, I had seen many men come in and out of the lives of the women around me, and there was a part of me that wanted the “father” of my daughter to be the one.  The only thing permanent from that relationship is the tattoo.  In case you are wondering, I still have it.  I see it more as a scar.  When I ask my husband how he feels, he says it doesn’t bother him anymore, he’s beyond that.  But I think I’ll surprise him one of these days.

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             The only time my grandmother got a tattoo, my grandfather forced her onto the bed, held her down like a cow and branded her so as to identify the owner.  He and one of his friends held her against her will, while my grandfather vandalized her pearly skin amidst the stench of alcohol.  Luis, porfavor!  She screamed, but there was no prince in shining armor to come save her.   She was so ashamed of it.  Unlike me, she never had the chance, the choice to accept it on her body.  Ultimately, she mustered the courage to leave my grandfather, only to endure 20 more years of abuse at the side of another man who she thought would be the one.

              The next time I thought I’d fall in love, I took my time.  I wanted to find the one, not the perfect one, but the one.

            I first met my husband, David Malo, in 1993 while attending community college.  I can still picture him in his raver-like baggy jeans, with his ebony hair draped down his back and the NY Yankee hat that inconspicuously hid his eyes.  I was 19 years old at the time, raising a one-year-old baby and very focused on transferring to San Diego State University (SDSU).  We quickly became close friends.  One of the qualities that most attracted me to him was his gentle and vulnerable spirit.  He was kind with his words and listened to me without judgment.  He brought calmness into a time of my life that was full of chaos and stress.

             He was someone who I felt safe around, because he respected me as a woman, and a mother.  Because I was working, attending school full-time, and nursing my daughter, the circle of friends I once had was practically non-existent.  He became someone I could count on unconditionally, and even if I didn’t make contact with him for weeks, I could call him in the spur of the moment, and we would pick up right where we had left off.  We continued to be friends and he brought a peaceful silence into my life that my spirit had been yearning for.

             We began dating the summer of 1995 and both transferred to SDSU in August of that same year.  He never asked for more than I could give.  I never felt pressured or any sense of obligation, because he understood how dedicated I was to my daughter and my studies.  He just patiently waited for me to have time for him.  It wasn’t surprising that my grandmother, whom I lived with, and my daughter quickly grew an affinity toward him.

              On June 29, 2002 we married and vowed a life of love, partnership, and commitment to each other.   Not only did he accept me into his life, but he also accepted my daughter and grandmother.  Though we have had challenging times in our relationship, his gentle and kind spirit has been the constant force that has helped us heal and overcome the painful experiences.  Before my grandmother died a year ago, she told me she could go in peace, because she knew David would take care of Carmen and me the way she (my grandmother) had taken care of us.

Comic

            The first time Carmen got a tattoo was on her 19th birthday.  We both tattooed a hummingbird, once sketched by Frida Kahlo, on the frontal part of our left shoulder, where our heart continues to extend through our arms.  We fell in love with the image when we first saw it in The Diary of Frida Kahlo: An intimate Self-Portrait.   This time I took my time and let the idea of this potentially new permanence sit in my heart for a while.  As for Carmen, I wanted her to understand the process of making important decisions in her life, like tattoos and marriage.  I figured starting with a tattoo was less risky than marriage (giggle inside). Disclaimer:  Falling in love and sharing your life with someone doesn’t require marriage.  But even the decision of whether to get married or not is one that has to come from deep inside one’s soul – one that we have to be able to live with.

               The hummingbird is (was) significant to us in so many ways.  It’s at the center of many traditions, and folklore of Mexico, and we grew up understanding the hummingbird through the lens of our Mexicansimo.  Frida Kahlo, whom we deeply admire for the profound, relentless questioning of her identity and exploration and liberation of her soul, inspired us to face our journey with authenticity and courage, and to fiercely question: who do I think I am; what am I looking for; what is my intention; what am I resisting; who or what am I blaming; who do I need to forgive; what really matters to me; what do I stand for?  She often sketched and painted hummingbirds to symbolize her suffering and endurance.  She is an example of strength, for like the hummingbird, despite her immense pain and handicaps, she was never mentally or spiritually confined. She explored her feminism, masculinity, sexuality, and Mexicanismo without regard to mainstream social norms.

                   Carmen and I inherited Tita’s alma de colibrí (soul of a hummingbird)She too, despite the abuse and suffering, never stopped flying, never stopped exploring, never stopped living.  The hummingbird is the only bird that can fly backwards, and emerges into flight from the sole power of its wings.  It exemplifies the bold, extraordinary spirit of our Tita.  A few months after Carmen left to college, Tita died of lung cancer.  I found myself alone, spiritually fractured; I didn’t know how to live without them.  I entered a stage of transformation.  I was either going to drown in the muddiness of my pain, or I was going to honor my grandmother’s spirit by emerging from self-pity to self-realization.  At the same time this was happening to me, Carmen was beginning to take flight.  We are (were) both exploring and discovering a new stage in our lives, one in which our spirit is teaching and guiding us to live fearlessly and fiercefully.  The hummingbird above our heart is a reminder of where we come from and where we are going.

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The Soul of a Hummingbird

I dedicate this poem to my grandmother, Carmen Elida Prince (Tita), and all the Abuelas who have had the courage and resolve to fight for the happiness of their family.   She taught me to never allow boundaries to limit my dreams.  She was courageous, and even when fear overwhelmed her, she always followed her heart.  She had dreams for her family, though she rarely dreamed for herself.

She was a paradox.  Abused by both of her husbands, she struggled to find her voice  to stand up for herself.  Too afraid of her first husband, mi abuelo Don Luis Covarrubias, she let the love of her life, Miguel Angel, slip away.  Yet, when her husband’s abuse threatened her children, she emerged on her own power and, without a penny to her name, went in search of a better life.

She was kind, gentle, and generous, yet vicious and fierce when it came to protecting someone she loved.  She was about 18 and had already married her first husband.  My abuelo had given Tita money to buy a cashmere sweater she had seen and liked.  Her younger brother, tio Miguel, accompanied her to the department store.  She was delighted with her sweater.  According to tio Miguel, on the way back home, they came upon a woman that was sitting on the sidewalk with a baby in her arms.  It was a cool evening, and Tita noticed that they were not wearing anything warm.  Without hesitation, she grabbed the cashmere sweater and handed it to the woman, along with money.  My uncle stared at Tita incredulously, thinking my abuelo was going to get very upset when he found out that Tita had given the expensive sweater away.

On another occasion, Tita had gone out to the Mercado with her sister, my tia Mary.  They had gone to purchase a can of sardines.  As they were walking back home, a passerby grabbed my tia Mary’s butt.  All of a sudden, Tita heard my tia yell, “Cabron, hijo de la chingada!” In seconds, Tita got wind of what the jerk had done, and without anticipation, jabbed the open can of sardines into the side of his face and proceeded to scrape the can with the jagged edges down his face.

Within the confinements of her life, she found the freedom to be.  She didn’t take shit from anyone, and yet she took a lot of shit.  She was abused, silenced, and overpowered, yet she was resilient, loud, and powerful.  No matter how difficult her life experiences, she never succumbed her spirit to the suffering.

The more she aged, the more youthful and vivacious she became.  She always wore bright, bold colors with matching jewelry.  She never missed her routine pedicure and manicure, and she wasn’t afraid of reds and fuchsias.  Her eyebrows were tattooed, and even though they could only merit the label of peach fuzz, she insisted she get them waxed every two weeks.  She loved to eat but had cooked enough in her lifetime, so she was always insisting we go out.

As she became older, her spirit was no longer buried under the mud of oppression, abuse, guilt, and expectations.  I saw her transform into who she was meant to be.   For all of this and more, she inspired me to find mi alma de colibri.

Hummingbird   (Colibrí)

Boldly dancing against the still azure

flying jewels dispersing scents

of nectar sweet

Wings of kaleidoscope whispering hope into the air

untamed dreams manifested in every

flower’s DNA

It can never survive in a cage, its wings would suffocate

Emerging entirely on its own power

It colors the soul of spring

Colibrí

Valientemente baila entre la calma del azul celeste

Joyas volando que van perfumando

de nectar azucarado

Alas de caleidoscopio susurrando esperanza en el aire

Sueños indomables se manifiestan en el

ADN de cada flor

Nunca sobreviviría en una jaula, sus alas se sofocarían

Emergiendo de su propia fuerza

Colorea el alma de primavera