There is a real power,
a true heart in this land.
The true preciousness in this continent was not taken.
It is not gone.
It is alive.
Because it was not a book.
It was not a building.
It was not a painting.
It was not a “history”.
The true wealth of this continent
has simply been dormant
in the trees,
in the bones of the people.
It’s alive in the silent
coming and going
of the blood in our veins.
It is in the sky.
It is in the curve of the eagle
as it circles it’s prey.
It is in the roaring sound of the waves,
speaking for centuries,
against the rocks.
It is in the depth of that ocean
that we can never touch,
but we can all feel
if we grow in silence.
It is in the air I breathe,
and in every person that died-
that fed with their blood,
those creatures that spoke to us
before the false god came to this land.
So that one day they may awaken once again,
and crawl around my spine,
and emerge as a serpent
over my head,
and see through my eyes.
Those are still here
and talking to us.
This continent is awakening.
The continent is about to utter,
in poetic explosions,
the wisdom of all times.
To speak through the sounds of the brujo.
Ancient sounds in modern words.
We are about to experience the drunkeness
of ancient wines in ever-new cups.
We speak directly with the powers
of the land, of the stars, of nature.
We speak directly with the voice of the blood,
and the signs on the skin.
No need for a holy book,
a sacrament, building, or hierarchy.
We speak things of power.
And they are opening their eyes,
and awakening once again.
No need for a war of decolonization for this to be.
No need for this to be an insurrection.
The awakening is enough
to dispel the fog of dreams.
(Season Cole’s poetically curated notes from a lecture by Koyote the Blind.)