Woman... from the brook.
My crying is nothing but liberation.
My fears are not less than your sufferings.
My screamed complaint is nothing but your heartbreaking silence and my complaining silence is not less than your forgetfulness or forgiveness.
Woman ... from the desert.
The centuries of time, sand, wind and thirst, have not witnessed the freedom of our prayers.
They do not assure us that a tear or silence will reveal you.
A virginal scar, motherhood survives you.
Woman ... from the mountain.
Who already has work founded at every dawn a thousand years ago,
there is no horizon to transcend it, through the greenery of your soul.
Woman... from my village.
Between your sun and your moon, you do not have time to think about you;
although you desire with corn, beans and firewood… a name
that is a footprint sown in a clear identity.
Woman... from my city.
The rush to grow makes you disappear from yourself
Your plans between profession and your nearest quest,
Allow for spaces that hurt the depth of your soul
And leave the outburst of your greatest treasure: being a woman.
Ana Evelyn Mazariegos Carrascosa