To Comfort The Disturbed, and to Disturb the Comfortable: Onward children of the sun By Cesar A. Cruz, 1997 Daddy, why is Mommy hangin from a tree? the torture chambers of our minds collide hide disguise the plight of freedom of might... she called out my name in Tienamien Square and I tried not to listen. I saw his mother raped in Burma... and all I could do was vomit the disgust, the anger, the rage, the fear... my weak body felt numb... where to turn, where to run... a peace accord was signed in Guatemala with blood dripping from torture chambers, of the disappeared, pleas for peace. a piece of savagery awakened the vast land, as the flames, the scorched earth stretched its roots to the south and yet El Salvador, Nicaragua, Honduras, and Panama would not listen... a child in Bosnia picked up a rifle, cocked, reloaded and shot his own father... for there was no other alternative... his fathers last words ring clear, night and day, day and night as the young soldier, must rage on. Get it over with... I want to die in my homeland... a free man... the wound is too severe... do it for our country... The military Gestapo arrived to ethnically cleanse the heathen population. Calcutta cried, wept as our mother sat in a death bed awaiting the inevitable. ashes fell upon South Africa as the turnover, apartheid, was complete on paper, and now slavery would have to entail a blueprint similar to Americas... make it legal... make the details a party (for us to) hide... apartheid a part lie sponsored by the rich side The cries of boardroom execs competing to hire prison cons strengthening multi-national corporations, and the ghetto child wondering why she/he deserves such preferential treatment in Americas prison industrial complex.... the prophet planted a seed, and Pinoy sisters and brothers took aim at the coming of kalayaan... freedom... libertad... they held hands and drank the blood of an endless river of lgrimas, y of tears of pain, of survival, of oppression... of liberation.. the revolutionary sister took the A-train down past the underground tunnel y aligned her troops, seized Macchu-Picchu, y Tenochtitlan and still had time to catch the nearest exhibit of pre-European Western art at the local prison for indigenous treasures... a west ern museum. the little African girl held her Bosnian brothers hand as they saw the local newsreel of resistance in Chiapas.... they smiled and the crystal phoenix rose above their eyes shattering the physical demise of the commercialization of revolution its spirit soared awakening Cambodian teachers to shut down the local TV station for showing another episode of Baywatch! the Haitian refugee sought a light, a gleam, an audience... asking the Japanese elder to remind America that internment camps were alive and well.. another detention camp just went up for illegal slave aliens toiling the back fields of a worldwide economy... the little Mexican girl asked her tata: Porque esta colgada mi madre de ese arbol? her father, tried not to lose the deep end and replied, Tu madre quizo un poco de paz... Your mother wanted a piece of peace... but what she got was a worldwide masterpiece of torture, of rape, of splattered corpses whose trail spawned the winds of the east, and the air conditioners of the west... she sought...to live... to give... but her roots.., her struggle her awakening had flown out of the theaters like a cheap B-movie whose turn was to hit the shelves. She just wasnt marketable. on the third day her spirit rose above ground and a Taiwanese farmer planted her seed on the ground... its rebirth, the corn, fed her people as the rage of the storm ensued... the young phoenix spread its wings and delivered nutrients across vast lands, crossing fictional borders without even carrying a green card... it landed on plymouth rock and saw Tecumseh, Tonantzin, and Tupac Amaru, awaiting the coming of prophecy.... el maiz habia renacido... the corn had risen and the people y were once again fertile... the winds of rage sought to destroy freeways in LA, and skyscrapers in Tokyo... but the people of East Timor would not be moved... the free ways in which the earth shook drowned those who dared not listen to the call of the maz... typhoons, tornadoes, and hurricanes, rebirth.... a new seed, a change being sung by a homeless man in Philly who sought spare change... and yet all you could do was walk away.... the pain, the rage, is staring us in the face, and yet, we proclaim democracy is only a step away. our facade of democracy is the worlds reality of starvation, war, and savagery.... and yet, somehow, amidst the rage of the storm lies the roots of our change, our humanity, our growth, our hope, our faith, for revolution, for peace, made entirely out of corn... hecha de maiz y el corazon.
Posted on: Sun, 03 Nov 2013 21:36:03 +0000
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