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A dirge for them, a praise for them

Some time ago, I thought I had written a poem to a Mexico City metro station. I never managed to sell it and I kind of forgot about it till yesterday when I realised it wasn't about a metro trip, it was a poem about all those women who are killed every day and, mostly, about those women who are marching, yelling, demanding for our rights to be respected, for our voices to be heard. This is for them. Metro La Raza i Línea 3 Our fathers killed our mothers. Our fathers destroyed the temples of our mothers. —Four hundred years later, their sons replaced them with a fake pyramid. They put four tlatoanis and an eagle on top of it. Their sisters ended up nursing the concrete-made people at the base of the faux temple. Then, they killed their sisters too. —They’ve been enslaving them, raping them, mutilating them. Killing them. KILLING THEM. KILLING US. My sisters are underground riding the orange snake, building our new temples, surviving. I’m coming home. My

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