No Lies
BY mariela tax / translation by willy palomo

Brown and freckled, my skin don’t lie.
It does not hide its earth-given inheritance.

My hair don’t lie.
Braided and free, it keeps its blackness,
the essence of a people ravaged by hunger.

It’s true. My skin don’t lie.
But my eyes no longer know
how to read the hidden messages
in a sky fallowed by clouds
or in the undulation of swallows
announcing the winter.

It’s true. My skin don’t lie.
But my eyes no longer know
how to read a bloodmoon,
waiting for the song
of drums and chants,
nor the starry skies of December
announcing the frost.

It’s true. My hair does not lie.
But my eyes no longer know
how to recognize the midsummer swells,
the drought, nor the sowing cycles,
or the difference between winter
and an ephemeral rainfall.

My skin don’t lie.
But my eyes no longer know
how to read the sky.
Time keeps taking away our ancestors.