A mother cries over the body of her young son
gunned down so young, lying in a pool of blood.
It seems like only yesterday, that the young
man’s laughter echoed throughout their home.
She clutches his body, gently cradling the boy
she once held as a child. Her tears falling like
rain. The bullets that took her son’s life are a
tribute to the puppet master offered up by his
unthinking slaves.
“Mijo, mijo,” her words are spoken to the wind as
her son will never hear his mother’s voice again.
The cruel city streets greedily drink up the blood,
as an offering to the god of hate.
Tomorrow, the boy’s mother will cover herself in
black, a symbol of the darkness which now fills
her heart. She will then light a candle to the
Virgin
and pray for her sons soul, wondering how she will
survive in the world without his smile to light
the
way.
The boy’s friends come to the velorio and talk
about revenge, but in reality no one wins, for
the streets of the barrio belong only to the city!
the streets of the barrio belong only to the city!
Before long a different mother will cry, and
another
young Chicano will die, as more young bloods keep
falling for the same old lies.
Too many young Chicano's listening to the garbage
that life works just like in the songs and movies,
even though most of that stuff is only fiction.
The word art comes from the word artificial, a
technique used to manipulate the human mind
into thinking that something is real. But bullets
don’t shed tears and they don’t have feelings.
They don’t feel pain or care who they hit, because
bullets don’t think!
Tonight in the barrio, another Chicano mother will
cry!
cry!
Real life is about young people honoring La Raza,
not about dishonoring it by destroying each other!
Frank Solis Copyright
2016
All Rights Reserved
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