My language is not dead

This was written awhile back but now that graves that have been desecrated again on the island of Boriken aka Puerto Rico, it still holds true.  We even now have scientific proof with DNA studies that the native people of the island are not extinct, just within our hearts and souls.

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My language is not dead

It lives in the rustling leaves of the ausubo, the tabanuco, the caoba and the sacred ceiba tree whose deep roots reach into the caves of my heart.

The yuca, maiz and batata still grow in the conucos where we once buried unmarked cemis to inspire the land to be even more fertile.

The sweetness of the guayaba fills me with memories of the joyous freedom and abandon of the time before the others arrived. The colibris, bijiritas and guatibiris flit about the emerald green manigual while guaraguaos soar above in the resplendent, blue sky searching for the truth.

Huracanes with their swirling winds cleanse the land of contamination. The yagrumos and palms bend and sway to the will of the torrent.

My people are the Boricua, from the land of plenty, the Quisqueya, from the land of high mountains, the Ciboney from Cubanacan, the sacred light around the center, and the strong Caribs. The Jibaros and Guajiros sing and drum to the stars of night sky in their mountain retreats.

In my bohio of cement and steel, hamacas lull me to sleep while the sounds of the coquis fill the tropical night air.

The caciques lead the people to the batey and dance at the areito singing the praises of Yucahu, the sacred, holy spirit of the land, whose breath brought us to life. We remember our great ones in song and dance: Agueybana, Anacaona, Caguax, Orocobix, Guarionex, Hatuey and Uroyoan.

As I visit the ancient bateys now covered by the cement of the Spanish plazas, I remember that my language is not dead.