Rugged skin pressed upon seasoned huaraches.
Tired feet that yet remain undefeated,
Hoisted up by the spirits of our ancestors.
Callused hands gently laying freshly pressed masa.
The comal carries a blistering heat yet
It only ever feels like a slight kiss of warmth.
The braid that was once jet-black is now
Peppered with silver-coated strands of wisdom.
It remains tightly intertwined to not lose
the memory of The Place of the Seed.
Azteca, Maya, o Zapoteco? Ya no se sabe.
Pero ella es Oaxaqueña, y corre en nuestra sangre.
“La Oaxaqueña” – By Frida Avila
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