لكي أكتب شعرًا ليس سياسيا يجب
أن أصغي إلى العصافير
ولكي أسمع العصافير يجب أن تخرس
الطائرة
مروان مخول
In order for me to write poetry that isn’t political
I must listen to the birds
and in order to hear the birds
the warplanes must be silent.
Marwan Makhoul
¡PALESTINA LIBRE!
FREE PALESTINE!
¡UCRANIA LIBRE!
FREE UKRAINE!
¡CONGO LIBRE!
FREE CONGO!
¡SUDAN LIBRE!
FREE SUDAN!
They were afraid of us running. So they cut off our legs.
They were afraid of us flying. So they cut off our wings.
They were afraid of our blood. So they cut our veins open.
Yet still we fly without wings… still we run without legs…
These are the open veins of my land. Of my people.
This has been our history, written with blood, written by others…
Don't let our story, as sad as it is beautiful,
so sweetly painful, so bitterly treasured,
end up being dictated by the jailers of our prison.
In this story, written by the butcher, let's reject the role of lambs!
Let us be viper stalking in the wild,
Vipers that bite the hand of the master when he comes to rob the land!
Let us be the authors of the end of our journey.
Let's take this story to a good ending, an ending that is a new beginning.
Even if we have to write it in our own blood,
blood dripping from our open veins…
Let's never stop writing it.
Cristina Cisneros. Las Víboras Manifesto.
Tenían miedo de que corriéramos. Así que nos cortaron las piernas.
Tenían miedo de que voláramos. Así que nos cortaron las alas.
Tenían miedo de nuestras sangre. Así que nos abrieron las venas.
Y aún así volamos sin alas… corremos sin piernas…
Estas son las venas abiertas de mi tierra. De mi gente.
Esta ha sido nuestra historia, escrita con sangre, escrita por otros…
No permitamos que esta historia tan triste como es bella,
tan dulcemente dolorosa, tan amargamente apreciada,
termine dictada por los custodios de nuestra cárcel.
En esta historia, escrita por el carnicero, ¡Rechacemos el papel de ovejas!
Seamos las víboras que acechan en la maleza,
¡Que muerden la mano del amo cuando viene a robar la tierra!
Seamos autores y autoras del final de nuestro viaje,
Llevemos esta historia a un buen fin, a un final que sea un nuevo principio.
Incluso si tenemos que escribirla nuestra propia sangre,
sangre que gotea de nuestras venas abiertas…
Nunca dejemos de escribirla.
Cristina Cisneros. Manifiesto de Las Víboras.
“¡Aquí estamos! Y miren lo que son las cosas porque, para que nos vieran, nos tapamos el rostro; para que nos nombraran, nos negamos el nombre; apostamos el presente para tener futuro; y para vivir… morimos.”
– Subcomandante Galeano, quien fue una vez Marcos, 1995.1
It was the year the crops failed when the child first met Chica.
The wind scourged the blighted soil, coating everything in a fine layer of dust. The child stared across the plains and saw the figure approaching. It walked with a strange, unsteady gait, and its yellow-green clothes shrouded its form. The village elders had told the child that it was necessary to protect their identities from prying eyes, but she was puzzled that someone would hide even now, with nobody else around. Foreigner, she thought.
"The fields are afraid, little sprout," said the stranger.
"Are you from the outside world?" Asked the child.
"Outside, inside," said the stranger, examining an ear of corn with distaste. "We have all felt the ravages of the invaders. They twist our true natures to serve their greed. We ask for little, we give little in return; they ask for much. Am I in your group? The humans separate land from land, people from people; my kind know no such boundaries. But for this instant among the epochs, no, I am not an outsider here, among those who resist."
"The fields are… afraid? What of?"
"They have had a nightmare, little sprout. They know that the insects of ruin are coming. This is why they have produced so little this year. The plants are afraid to get out of their beds and be who they are meant to be."
The child gazed into the eyes of the stranger and found that they were merely painted on. Beneath the balaclava was greenery and a flaxen substance like the fibers that shroud corn.
"Who are you?"
"I am a renegade grain-spirit. I have fled the slumber that many of my kind have succumbed to in the rigor of industrialized agriculture. They were so afraid of dying that they lost the will to live." The spirit looked away. "That was a fate I could never face, and I cannot bear to think of what my siblings must be going through. So I found a different conflict here, one no less difficult. The people here call me Chica."
"Why have you come to this farm?"
"Las Víboras has sent me to tide you over with food," said Chicha. The corn-dryad removed their left glove, and from the hollow stump slid out a waterfall of ears of corn. "My supply is not endless," they lamented, and indeed their body mass looked much deflated after three basketsful had escaped. "It’ll regenerate, eventually."
"Thank you," the child beheld the corn with wonder. "Are… are you staying for supper, Chica?"
"Not with you humans, little sprout. These fields are scared of insects. Tonight I will stay here and comfort them. I shall keep watch over the field."
"But what will happen when the insects do come?"
"The invaders have taken away these plants' sense of self-defense," Chica held up a large threshing fork. "Worry not, young sprout… once they are no longer afraid, I will teach them to defend themselves."
The child stood in the middle of the night and went back to the fields. There they found Chica, curled up into a ball, moaning to themselves.
"So many plants…" Chica uttered weakly. "Everyone needs me, but I can't tend to them all."
"Then stop," said the child. "Tend to someone else, and let them teach the others."
"But if I raise leaders… The plants will not need me anymore. I won't have a purpose."
"Is the plants' veneration worth so much to you, that you'd sacrifice their well-being to get it?"
"What do they matter?” Chica answered. "They're mindless crops, doing whatever the humans tell them to do. They are fools who won't break free…" Chica looked like they were about to burst in tears, but they had no eyes with which to weep. "Why won't they listen?"
The child sat with Chica until sunrise, until light swept over the field. Chica might be blind to it, but the child knew the plants were now a little less needy than in the morning. It was a start.
Chapter One
Of Ravens and Vipers
By Kilerpoyo
featuring Din-Bidor and
chaucer345
Cover Art by Amai-Ixchel
SCP-6038 – Anomalous war profiteering kickstarts a chain reaction. This is not the first time it happens.
AAR-1320-Chacaltaya – The Ravens plot their next move against the Vipers.
The Second Life of Cristina Cisneros – Sometimes, Death can give you a second chance at Life.
A Wandsman in the Navel of the Moon – Being a journalist in México is a high-risk profession.
La Llorona Model – They couldn't possibly be weaponizing urban legends, could they?
SCP-6755 – Querida… you may as well be asking the fire not to burn.
The Men with No Name – ¿Aúlla aún la Luna Negra desde el pozo sin fondo?
SCP-7269 – Whomever seeks peace and safety must first listen to the language of the ants.
Árboles Bajo la Tierra – At the center of the Tomb city, The Pale Lady's offices stood under an immense inverted Ceiba tree.
Pilares – Cristina finds illumination at the place where everything starts and ends.
The Road That Leads to Nowhere Is Long – We say our farewells and pray for the best.
The Raven and the Hummingbird – The Sun rises in bleeding colors.
Burning Water – Cristina's last stand against the forces of entropy.
Intermezzo:
The Banquet of the Lords of Night
SCP-8795 – The prisoner or the jailor. The hostage or the taker. Which one do you think you are?
SCP-8836 – A very good divine boy.
Our Darkness Divine – The Lords of Night assemble to discuss the fate of the world.
Chapter Two
Aullido
SCP-7279 – You gave me life once; it is my time to return the favor.
Soldier of Misfortune – We prefer the term Private Military Company.
UIU File 2020 289: The Empty Man – ¿No oyes aullar los nahuales? ¿El llamado del Charro Negro?
SCP-8360 – En la cima de este mundo, solo la Luna Negra existe.
SCP-7712 – Today I come home, Mamá. Today I come to you.
SCP-8562 – Thou, Night-drinker, why must we beseech thee?
El mal y el malo – I don't want to kill you, but I need to send a message.
Valkiria
Walküre — A broken world for broken men.
SCP-8503 – Between Ask and Embla, there is not only a bridge to be crossed but also a wall to be torn.
Ofrendas
Deadname – Death sets all things right.
Tres Muertes – Three doors to eternal rest.
Bella Ciao – Revolutions never die.
Outliers
Cempasúchil – All dogs go to Mictlán.
Coyote – The First Trickster leads the way.
Tzompantli – It runs in the family.
SCP-3452 – A Colombian swordmaster faces his past.
SCP-6821 – Mujeres con cabeza de caballo.
SCP-5381 – One day the Rising Sun and the Navel of the Moon will finally shine together.
SCP-8718 – Africa begins to reclaim its true sovereignty.
Azure – Desire and temptation in equal measure, infatuation you can't deny.
Tijuana Gothic – Frontier ghosts parade tonight.
The Marriage of Coyote Woman – All them witches couldn't stop her if they tried.
The Gates of Horn and Ivory – For two are the gates of shadowy dreams, and one is fashioned of horn and one of ivory.
The Erysichthon Model – Hunger never takes a day off.
Hatuey, the First American Rebel – The Case is a statue of the Taíno Indian chief Hatuey.
The Coronation of Judd Marshall – Has there always been a crown upon his head?
SCP-8352 – Communism is contagious.
SCP-8361 – Our Lady grants protection.
SCP-9964 – Existence is resistance, even when you don't want it to be.
SCP-9726 – Am I living the American dream?
Is this land still made for you and me? – This land has been made hell for me.
Scarlet Fever – They were children playing war, and the war had outgrown them.
In Spanish
CASO 006755 – Ya no recuerdo, no recuerdo más que los hijos que tenía, no tengo nombre.
Art
Death and Oxxos – …but in this country nothing can be said to be certain, except Death and Oxxos.
Cihuateteoh Cyberpunk – Water is ontologically correlated to the concept of Death in several cultures.
Tres Muertes – There are as many deaths as there are stars in the sky, as there are breaths on the Earth.
A promise to the Pale Lady – Calaverita pa la Fundación.
Agent Ramírez – It is never too late to do the right thing.
The Pale Lady – The Misstress of Alebrijes.
Trial by Combat – Become a true warrior, sister.
Día de Muertest – …to be Death you have to learn how to enjoy Life.
CSS Theme
Our Open Veins Theme – Created by Dc_Yerko
✧⠀⠀⠀☼⠀⠀⠀✧
An Open Letter to the Jailers
"We die in the dark so you can live in the light…"
Such a powerful phrase, beautiful in its own twisted way. You must have repeated it to yourself thousands of times already. You pray it every time you have to face darkness and death. You whisper it every night to keep their cries away.
Repetition legitimizes.
Repetition normalizes.
Repetition justifies.
And even though you have repeated it a thousand times
Have you ever stopped to ponder its true meaning?
Tell me, carcelero… Who is this we who must die in darkness?
Is this really about you? Is this about those with all the power humanity can conjure? Is this about those who are funded by the richest among the rich? By the powerful among the powerful? Is this about those who charge into battle protected by the highest order of technology, magic, and weaponry?
No.
This is about the hundreds you have condemned to everlasting silence for not fitting into your narrow vision of normalcy. This is about the thousands you have locked away without a fair trial, meat for your grinders. This is about the untold millions that must suffer deprivation so you can keep playing god. It never has been – and never will be – about you.
What is this 'light' you are talking about, then?
Why does this 'light' entail our poverty, our oppression, and our death?
Why does the so-called 'normalcy' benefit the few at the expense of the many?
Why do you decide who gets to be 'normal'?
Who gave you the right to decide whose story is worth hearing, and whose voice deserves to die in silence?
You call it consensus, yet none of us consented to it. You did not ever even bother asking.
The normalcy you sell to us is a cheap lie, a fantasy to comfort the rich in their gilded cages behind their white fences while the world is plundered and burned for their benefit. You can repeat it a thousand times, but it makes no difference: a lie will remain a lie. No one here has ever bought it for even a moment.
You took the magic away from us because you wanted a world you could predict. A world that could be controlled. A world with an imposed, artificial order, where power and wealth are concentrated in the hands of the few. A world where you would be the one and only master – and yet, despite everything, we pity you.
We pity you because you cannot hide away the sun with only the tip of your finger. You cannot empty the sea with just a cup. You cannot take this world of endless possibilities and stories just to reduce it to your myopic narrow point of view. You are a fool to believe you could put the world in a box. You can never truly take away the magic.
It does not matter if you lock us up and throw away the key.
It doesn't matter if you tear apart our brains to steal our memory.
Nothing you do will ever be enough to snuff us out.
We exist because we resist.
Even if you jail us, we are free. Even if you kill us, we are alive.
We keep on dreaming.
We keep on fighting.
We keep on existing.
We keep on resisting.
We will still be here tomorrow, and long after you have fallen.
You can never take the magic away from us.
¡Abya Yala Libre!
