I Am Not...

I am not the memory of a hard mother's voice staccatod like gunfire of, " Why don't you?" " Why can't you?" I am the desire to flow clear like a silver river floating free like a butterfly on wings of poetry. I am not the words of some catchy corrido lustily sung nor the mere rhetoric written on banners waved vigorously. Nor the graffiti painted along Che Guevara's likeness underneath the international bridge at Juárez/ El Paso. I am more - the tears of women - the hunger pangs of children - the red of spilled blood - youth's undying hope - a city's choked- back but blossoming dreams. I am the sacred words: Sobrevivir. Sobresalir.