desde los sonidos de la noche
que lentamente desaparecen,
luna, rosa nocturna
manantial de estrellas.
Tonantzin, eres luz amarilla
la oscura tristeza transparente termina,
la mañana entallece desde su raíz otro día.
veo hacia arriba y el cielo derrama nubes,
espías de los dioses.
la mañana llega,
from the deep sounds of darkness
that slowly disappear.
the moon is a nocturnal rose,
a secret spring of stars.
Tonantzin, you are yellow light
from which the transparent sadness ends,
morning sprouts from its core another day.
I look up and the sky spills out clouds,
they are the spies of the gods.
behold, a gift.
“What is the name for a grief that creeps in after losing something, mixed with the back-dated guilt and shame of not really noticing? What is the nickname for a person who no longer embodies their name? What happens to a person who has become unrecognizable to some? What do we call a tree that’s been severed from its roots? A person who has been robbed of their identity?”
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