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DREAMS OF TIMES
Reyna Echeverria In my hair, an ancient woman who reminds me of my grandmother and the grandmother of my father, wakes up. In front of the mirror, I discover the definite lines of their faces; that is why I bring my desires closer to the image. The noises of the street mingle among them to inform, screaming, that again, the people are running behind the elastic times like any other day. The moon, inscribed on the wall, has giving me back what was left among forgotten papers that only spoke of the history of the South East. I pick up my reflection from behind the glass, and go back to the site where nothing stops: people and nature mix to become one in the cosmic universe. My ideas are boiling; I am submerged in voices and fall into the abysmal territory of my heritage. There is no fear in the land of the Mayas. The time, ancient snail of green oceans, procreates the seed. It is a live flagstone dream riding with figures of turtles. And the storm comes to bath with sweat, the growing grains, herbs of the wheel. Bodies of warriors get up, trembling because of the smooth walk of the Feather Serpent. The mother Ceiba, opening her arms, reaches the sky in this historical time, which is announced by the suns of life. From the corn, the skins mutate into colorful trails, dictating the universe. In the four roads of the earth, jaguars eating the centuries are showing up. The gods are marching across the road assigned to the re-encounter. Beside them, the ancestral languages are walking in a savanna covered by amazed animals. Dreams of Chaac, mosaic of turquoise and jade, prophecy facing the sun, marking a road. This is the Kantun, here the deer comes to drink where the abyss built pyramids of stellar horns. The fauces of the nights open up to eat the lament of the innocents. Copal is offered to the occult ministry of the retina. The birds sing a disastrous melody to silence the cries. Jicaras and virgins are brought to the winds and Mizencaanchauc, ray that sweep the sky, cleaning the conciousness. Hour of a tambourine light, polychromy of glass over a projecting stone, dance of oropendolas in the branches of the chicozapote. The arches of the door are filled with a crispy light receiving the millennium that is getting closer. The destellos are flowing in the great pyramid of Itza. The cenote opens its lips to the present, which has been renovated so many times. This is the Mayab, place where the children of the moon are born, land that holds great knowledge under the ruins that still await the gaze: the instant to make it eternal. The jaguar has arrived to plant flowers on my mourning hair, and I thank him with a gesture to revive my forehead adjusted to the spring. Without saying anything, I return home to look at my city with different eyes.
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| {IMIX} | {IK} | {AKBAL} | {KAN} | {CHICCAN} | {CHUEN} |