Some ancestors imagined a fifth sun; revolutionaries dared to live in the sixth.
Imagine the mothers of motherboards –
Gold veins, gold apparel —
Twisting into our soul,
Metals never melted for coin.
Imagine the eucharist’s harddrive –
With ritual dances,
Swinging Christ’s blood,
Spread among quetzal feathers –
Across stretched drums
punctuating fresh incantations,
Imagine this new reverberating sun,
Electrified above our heads,
Bouncing over us
like a child’s soccer ball,
Realizing a day —
Where artists come before the conquerers,
Where dancers come before the merchants,
Where bomba kicks up sand –
Into new skies –
Where hope is only the pulsating starting point,
And answers are always in the next breath.
A sixth sun warming the heart,
And risk is not synonymous with love.