Cry of pain

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Grandfather held my feet firmly.

I sat on his shoulders

to reach the stars.

The fireworks went on,

sparks of God in heaven

They shone before my eyes.

"Long live!" The crowd shouted

with pride. They called him

Cry of pain.

Only six, I still could not

understand, the meaning of

That September night.

Everything I knew was family Sundays,

cross back and forth between borders,

and the hymn that sang in the corridors.

Illuminated by an understanding

of the heritage. I discovered my homeland,

900 kilometers away.

My own identity

Today, the Chicana fireworks

they light my way under the same sky.

Motivated by a vague and ingrained memory

of my Grandfather and the Sixteenth of September.

Grandfather held my feet tightly.

I sat on his shoulders

as I reached for the stars.

The fireworks ignited,

God-like specks in the sky

glistened before my eyes.

"Long live!"

the crowd yelled with pride.

They called it El Grito de Dolores .

Only six, could not

understand the meaning of

that night in September.

All I knew were family Sundays

crossing back and forth between borders

and the hymn I sang in the halls.

Illuminated by an understanding

of heritage I discovered my

homeland, 600 miles away from it.

My own identity.

Today, the Chicana fireworks

light my path under the same sky.

Sparked by a faint and rooted memory

of my Grandfather and the Sixteenth of September .