The heat still kindled in the depths of the ashes that had been burning for centuries in our hearts and in our homes, deep in our earth.
The blood had long been spilled and the hatred had been securely buried in the hearts of the children and the children’s children.
But somewhere on the ground, por la tierra, there were crackles of a kindling fire, one sparked throughout time that refused to give out.
The womyn had been breathing upon it quietly, softly, and slowly so as to not make too bright a light…but enough to keep it alive, and strong enough to keep it from dying out.
Dropping little pieces of copal into the sacred fire, the sacred juices of our tree relatives slowly burned, turning into a sweet fragrance that cleared the air, que limpia como una máma a un bebé.
The spilled blood from violent wars against the gente now nourished the seeds that sat in wombs of fertile soil. The resistance in the spirit of each drop of blood that refused to submit gave life to the seeds that grew silently underground, barely murmuring, being careful to not make a sound.
The heat brought out the soul and the fuerza of the seed was rekindled. Embers began to burn down the house of the slave master. Embers began to burn down the chains from Europe. Embers began to burn away the white blindfolds. The wasichu began to lose their power and the wétiko started to die.
Embers began to burn brighter and brighter and the gente began to feed it. The fire began to burn so brightly that from miles away they could feel it in their hearts, in their homes, and across the land.
Even water could not extinguish the fires in the hearts of those who had been born into the sea of whiteness and nearly drowned under colonialism and occupation.
The resistance, that unrelenting instinct for survival of the self, the group, the mind, body, and soul, had survived generations…the ashes of a fire set centuries ago kindled still.
The dawn of the sun of the next revoluXion slowly rose upon the horizon, and shined brightly into our eyes.
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