Sorceress of Hurricanes

Before becoming a citizen

to an unfounded emperor, 

I am Cacica, Mother of Tribes,

the Blackness of sugar strides, 

the Andalusian on creole tides.

I defended the Northern coasts

and cradled pirates in the South;

I am the captain with cannons on fire, 

the old jíbara, industrious but tired,

a foreigner who gave up desires.

These hands knew no penmanship,

since they were raising stones

for the fortification,

for the revolution, 

and the emancipation.

Lares became my attire

before the star-freckled napkin.

El Grito and I, under one flag,

gathered fabrics from every land,

an exquisite hymn we sang.

And Borikén nursed my soul

from the Throne of our Past,

tucking me in tobacco leaves,

enchanting me with coffee beans,

sugar canes in my dreams.

Before becoming a citizen

to you, unfounded emperor, 

I have been conjuring defiance, 

Sorceress of Hurricanes in silence, 

secret talismans, my guidance.

Fruitful Africa and Her roots,

conquering Danza from Spain, 

Borikén and Her child, Coquí

came together in chaotic spree,

in eternal residence in me.

The language of my history,

of cosmic blood, and transited roads.

All baggage to never be claimed

by an emperor, self-proclaimed, 

in a land, stolen and deranged.