There were stories only shared between grandmother and granddaughter, because they were permitted to be alone without the power play of mother and daughter. In male dominated societies neither the elder nor the child is considered to be of importance. So they are allowed to whisper to each other and tell the stories that are not meant for male ears.
The nuance of the story would be memorized. The shape of the hand. The sensation of the cool air. The breeze between the legs. The subtle intake of breath in the nostrils will be noticed, and one’s organic reactions to the sudden turns of the stories. Such stories were never told among men, for fear that the veil would be ripped apart and men would realize the futility, the meaninglessness of their ways.
Small and delicate emerges a flower in my heart, surrounded by so many forces and poisons.
Easy to cut, to ignore and kill, this flower grows thorns that can do nothing against the world invading her spring.
But the omnipotent weakness of her beauty is born and reborn in the depth of my feeling. And then, as any worldwide catastrophe,
torrents and whirlwinds are invoked to cleanse the world,
rebellions of love that dethrone the evil,
and the revolutionary glory of my most sacred mysteries.
Pequeña y delicada nace una flor en my corazón, rodeada de tantas fuerzas y venenos.
Fácil de cortar, de ignorar y de matar, esta flor saca espinas que nada pueden contra el mundo que invade su primavera.
Pero la omnipotente debilidad de su belleza nace y renace en la profundidad de mi sentir.
Y entonces, cual catástrofe mundial,
se invocan diluvios y torbellinos que me limpian del mundo,
rebeldías de amor que destronan el mal, y
la gloria revolucionaria de mis más sagrados misterios.