song of Zapata

wealthy vampires
w/a cold hands of executioners...
execute executive decisions,
determined to destroy...
what 1,000,000 women, children & men
1910.. died, drowning in the rage of battle
mothers, half-naked...
infants clutching their necks running frantically...
tripping over the bodies of their dead sons...
teeth gnashing, swinging machete
spilling blood & mud & screaming...
land & liberty... were erased...
buried & burned.. along w/ the memory of the dead
along with the Ejido.

w/a smooth stroke of a pen...
and w/ the ghost of Nixon
present in their eyes... they smile
and pronounce the omnipotence of the free market
the prophets of profit...
extending the scourge of Columbus & Pizarro

The Freedom to buy things you could never afford
The Freedom for indians to buy corn...
that once flourished, overgrown in their backyards.
The Freedom to die of curable disease
The Freedom to watch their children stomachs swell & burst
The Freedom to starve & die w/o land or liberty

But Ramona... w/ eyes of obsidian...
peering through her blood & sweat
dreached mask... darting unseen...
changing direction w/ the swiftness of a bird...
through the shanties of the canyon
with every coyote, every insect...
every phylum of life urging her...
propelling her forward
The leaves & branches of the forest...
part for miles clearing her path.
the voices & screams beneath her feet...
echo in the deepest chasm of her soul...
hurling her towards the city...
history surging through her veins...
pursing through her fingers...
hurling her towards the city...
she caresses her trigger...
and the words of Magon fulfill her being
and w/ ewach shot she fires, she affirms her moments saying...
enough... enough...
no... I will see my own blood flow...
before you take my land or liberty