Beauty which Departs but Returns to Mixquic

The small floating island travels through the canal.
– Open the door, mother! So that we can surprise
that wandering soul who has arrived at our offerings;
the mirrors of the waterways have blinded her…

but she can feel her way, alone, to our house.
Prepare the food. That death may see
that this love of life we offer as a gift
so that she may better understand what the mystery
has bequeathed.

– Yes, dear daughter. Our house, clean, welcomes our
Lights. Incense. Tamales. Chairs.
The bed is made with flowers which we bought.

The little floating house is beauty that traverses
by the unparalleled road of all the river banks
we get on and then… Will we return?

Julie Sopetran
(Spanish poet, 2000)

Source: Poem found in Mexico City, Mixquic & Morelos- Through the Eyes of the Soul, Day of the Dead in Mexico

Journalist with a Borrowed Suit

I am a cadaver of the PRESS
I was born in a story;
in the most serious of news
I am the specialist.

I see many die.
I am the true journalist;
transcribing my work
I was left with no skin.

My indepth articles
provide reason for opinions;
under my blue suit, I hide
my bones and my heart.

Not to argue,
the PRESS has authority;
it brings what’s necessary
if it’s to report the TRUTH.

My style is to present the naked truth
since my suit is borrowed;
I like the raw news
and I outline the story.

Death beckons me
she follows me;
if I don’t write about her, she will come for me
or she will sentence me to oblivion.

The interview torments me
I detest the transcription:
she doesn’t bother with gossip
just the facts.

I research the questionnaire
I like what is ethnocentric;
I am that skeleton in the closet
and they call me egocentric.

I have many educated readers
who growl at me;
they are like adult children
forgetting death.
Subjective, impression,
bias from which we suffer;
Death without a heart
idea she doesn’t deserve

I write for those who think
my advice is precise;
I send my message through the intense
calling of notices.

My friend plays the drums
announcing the carnage;
awaken into Love!
Without which you have nothing.

Come on! Read the news
for in this world of excesses;
only he who thinks is saved
and the rest, are bones.

Don’t look at me if you are scared
but that coffin is my home;
if you can’t handle its sight
its’ better to take it in jest.

I am a professional
of the profession of providing news;
news-it’s all evil
to be good is only … sacrifice.

Diversity is the secret
of being and enjoying;
playing the drums, dares
those who know how to Love.

And me as a journalist
of the NEWS skinny and frank;
I invite you to run the show
bare and for no reason.

Bones and heart to the wind
Who can stop us?
Not the internet, nor thoughts,
only those who can READ.

Julie Sopetran
(Spanish poet, 2000)

Source: Poem found in Mexico City, Mixquic & Morelos- Through the Eyes of the Soul, Day of the Dead in Mexico

Message in Colors

Lit candles. Faces. Memories
and an entrance that’s a rainbow: protection for the place
of rest and meditation.
Necklaces. Cempasuchitl, pre-Hispanic links, songs,
paper medals, flames talking to the wind
the diverse language departed.
It is the prime time of the celebration
or death’s thread, threaded
through time’s needle.
It is the decomposition of matter, transformed into art.
It is the final curtain awaken from death in Ocotepec.
Yes. An eternal dream of uncorrupt flowers and of
It is death’s lament, fading away
and it is also the respect made a tribute.
Who could have imagined so much beauty on a tomb?
Mole. Glass of water. Copal. Salt. Prayers.
Firecrackers. Fruits. Bread. Music.
Corridos. Bolas. Romantic songs.
History, praised. Creativity, expressed
in its most raw form…
And it is the color purple, elegies in white, blue, pink.
It is a blow from grace so heightened as artificial fire
that reveals the soul’s presence in the darkness.
Something like the flowering of martyrdon in flames.
An arrangement for the end or the posthumous splendor.
In Morelos everything is possible
gloom battles with life and its victor,
it is once again for a little which, happiness, live tradition
which overcomes reality.
It was before these ornate gravesites, when I knew
that in Ocotepec, as in my heart,
those that have departed return every year to remind us of
their love.
And that only LOVE can save us.

Julie Sopetran
(Spanish poet, 2000)

Source: Poem found in Mexico City, Mixquic & Morelos- Through the Eyes of the Soul, Day of the Dead in Mexico


Death has arrived
dancing the carisisqui
she has come to take with her
the visitors of Mixquic.

Tacho, Street Poet

Source: Poem found in Mexico City, Mixquic & Morelos- Through the Eyes of the Soul, Day of the Dead in Mexico

Woman with a somber gaze,
Tell me, what do you see if the candles?
are the ghosts in the night
or are they flowers of the earth?

What do you treasure on your lap
illuminated and transparent,
even in the air
your silhouette appears?

Twice as much the pain,
twice as much the loss,
the flowers have become the rivers
and the fragrance cries out.

Pondering at night,
vigil of the imagination,
bundle of lights and echoes,
stay up late during the wake…

Woman with a tender gaze
the flames of candle reach out;
are they mocking this moment
or are they restfully flickering out.

In your illuminated face
life rejuvenates,
to those who love death
this is a golden in their sight.

For those who love life
it is a night of confusion,
the wax kisses the flowers
and the flame caresses the emotions.

What is Death?

What is death? It is the glass of life broken into a
thousand pieces, where the soul disperses like
perfume from a flask, into the silence of the eternal

Unknown Author

Source: Poem found in Michoacan- Through the Eyes of the Soul, Day of the Dead in Mexico