Seven hundred shadows illuminate, with candles, a path that will

carry white flowers and the name of skies that aren’t born yet. 

A pregnant mother, on the verge of becoming a grandmother,

is about to give birth to her baby and the father, a singer,

sings to her:

At dawn, it was my heart that you stole.

At dawn, it was my heart that you stole.

Seven hundred moons will dance beside him, following in the

footsteps of this child, who flies then sleeps when he sees the

sun set. The moons have never forgotten this beautiful lagoon;

some of them have stayed, and from their smiles rise

Skies of moons and suns of white stars.

Skies of moons and suns of white stars.

***

The child follows his path and starts to go down.

When he reaches the bottom he will touch the footsteps

of the lives and beings whose feet will see him waking up.

Then, with a new destiny, his parents get up and raise him

this song:

At dawn, it was my heart that you stole.

At dawn, it was my heart that you stole

between skies of moons and suns of white stars.

Skies of moons and suns of white stars.

How beautiful your absence is

for it cannot be touched.

It slips aways like the sigh

I released when you came 

chase the cold away.

How beautiful it is to wait

for you to come back again

while your laugh, like the moon, 

pretends to fade away

without ceasing to shine.

Oh, come back for I have to tell you

Oh, everything that your absence made me remember

How beautiful your absence is

for it pretends to be you

and it continues your routine

and keeps filling the room 

with the echo of your voice.

And now both of us are here

dreaming of your return.

I want to feel you closer

and she wants for you to open the door

to see where she will go to next.

Oh, come back for I have to tell you

Oh, everything that your absence made me remember

Oh, everything that I remembered in your absence

Your absence

Once again

we have to say goodbye,

but this is not the end.

A game will start

between us two

for us to meet here once more.

I planted clues right in the middle of the garden.

Leave me traces that will lead me on your path.

Once again

we have to say goodbye,

but this is not the end.

A game will start

between us two

for us to meet here once more.

I left you clues right beside the garden tree.

Draw me a map for me to be able to follow you.

When we see each other again you

will come to me with your departure,

and if we meet again 

I will no longer be scared of goodbyes.

Once again

we have to say goodbye,

but this is not the end.

A game will start

between us two

for us to meet here once more.

When we see each other once again

it will be the day before you leave,

and if we meet again the next day I

will no longer be scared if we part ways.

All the roads we have traveled

have brought us back to the center.

And it is here that we remember our reencounter

before starting all over again.

When we see each other once again

it will be the day before you leave

and if we meet again the next day

I will no longer be scared if we part ways.

When we see each other again

you will come to me with your departure

and if we meet again 

I will no longer be scared of goodbyes.

I am the granddaughter of the dawn,

born to sing mantra-like poems and stories without an end.

I’m from the river and from the mountains,

I grew up with the volcano.

That’s why I carry the horizon very close to my home.

Today I search for different colors;

I’m afraid I have to go

so that the days can flourish as I walk.

I carry with me laughter and your name

so that I can remember

that this love cannot be broken:

I am walking to find you

Each time I find the way, I have to leave it behind

so that I can follow the Earth’s rhythm and explore the land.

That’s why I travel lightly while crossing the sugarcane crops;

smelling like spring and sea breeze I go.

I am the granddaughter of the dawn,

born to walk through new and unknown shires

looking for my song.

When the trilling of the mockingbird tastes like freedom

I will know that on the mountains there’s a wind of peace.

Each time I find the way, I have to leave it behind

so that I can follow the Earth’s rhythm and explore the land.

That’s why I travel lightly while crossing the sugarcane crops;

smelling like spring and sea breeze I go.

I am the granddaughter of the dawn,

I was born to sing.

There is a place where the leaves sing

and the wind plays with color.

Here on my branch I sing to the hours

that bring warmth.

Our island without soil is the mangrove’s heaven.

Our feet get buried

when we birds touch the sand.

The crocodiles watch us from afar

as they get ready to bite.

Without our island without soil we would never be able to sing.

Run before the Coco eats you! Run over here!

Run before the Coco eats you! Just run!

Run before the Coco eats you!

The night comes and so does the cold.

The sky turns back on

that light that abandons itself to the void

and illuminates the past.

On our island the stars come down to swim.

When we birds fly restless,

as soon as we rise, we fall down.

Thirst and fatigue tighten us quickly

we have to descend right away.

Without our island we would never reach the stars.

Run before the Coco eats you! Run over here!

Run before the Coco eats you! Just run!

Run before the Coco eats you!

Spilled on land, my river runs fast;

its course brings it back to the sea.

It laughs at the swirls I make as I try to take control because

they are nothing but wrinkles made by my oar on the surface.

Seabreeze, wind of salt,

Dew: you are the one who blows the tides.

Seabreeze, wind of salt

Dew: you are the one who sails.

Little rebellious boat, surrender to the current already!

Risk slipping!

Remember those journeys so resplendent,

green as the path down the river.

Seabreeze, wind of salt,

Dew: you are the one who blows the tides.

Seabreeze, wind of salt

Dew: you are the one who sails.

Poem by Humberto Ak’abal.

Translation by Dominique Hunziker.

The old loom is there

and me, without yarn to weave.

Those grey clouds

put more weight

on my sadness.

It starts to rain.

I run

and grab the end

of a water thread:

I roll it up

roll it up

roll it up

until I get a good ball of yarn.

My heart is content

the loom sings

and I start weaving.

I'm a stranger

and it'll always be in my nature,

there's no true place for me.

Cause my name's from one town and my soul's from another.

My father's not from around

and I don't look the same as my mother.

So when I finally feel

that you're a lot like me,

that I'm the same as you,

I hope that it is true.

Cause that would be the day that I belong somewhere

and I would feel at home, wherever I go.

I'm a stranger

even where I was born

and that's... painful

but then, I do feel loved.

And I can look around and see so many faces, in which

I have now found the most beautiful and homelike gazes.

So when I finally feel

that you're a lot like me,

that I'm the same as you,

I hope that it is true.

Cause that would be the day that I belong somewhere

and I would feel at home, wherever I go.

If you return once to what was your old sanctuary, you will see

that it will make you remember how much you have changed.

You’ve changed your course, your way of walking changed you,

step by step and month by month. You’ve climbed hills, you’ve

walked through valleys. You left just to come back.

One day I found myself wishing to find again the one that once

was my sacred corner, but I wasn’t able to come back to the

same place… or it was me who had changed.

Indeed, just like today and yesterday are similar without having

the same sunset, I’ve never had just one, but more than a

thousand homes: one for each sunrise.

How is it that you want to return?

You have always been here.

How could you forget that, at the end of the road,

home was within yourself?

If you return once to the home of your very first childhood,

you will see that it is no longer the same, but that there is

something waiting for you.

Between whirlpools and awful hurricanes, there’s something

in you that will flourish. You will see yourself as one of those

places where you can belong.

How is it that you want to return?

You have always been here.

How could you forget that, at the end of the road,

home was within yourself?

I know that every road is walked only once,

that no two paths are the same,

and that if life was a fable, it would have no proverb at the end,

that the path changes beneath your feet,

that you’ve already stumbled and you’re scared to fall down,

and that you cling to the fantastical idea of being able to return.

How is it that you want to return?

You have always been here.

How could you forget that, at the end of the road,

home was within yourself?

How is it that you want to return?

You have always been here.

How could you forget that, at the end of the road,

home was within yourself?

There is not a single garden that doesn’t understand

the color of my grandmother’s huipil.

She is wearing feather and flower.

She is wearing feather and flower.

The scent of my grandmother’s huipil

reminds me of corn and of smoke.

She smells like golden clouds that were toasted in the sun.

She smells like golden clouds that were toasted in the sun.

And the thread that keeps the memory,

that tells our story,

is just like her voice.

When I wear my grandmother’s huipil

I can hear her again in her loom.

Her voice lights up this song.

Her voice lights up this song.

The day that huipil belongs to my granddaughters

they will know their grandmothers are there

hugging their hearts.

hugging their hearts.

And the thread that keeps the memory,

that tells our story,

is just like her voice.