Overwhelmed by a series of strange happenings in his household, a workmate turned for answers to an expert in paranormal phenomena suspected of being brought about by aluxes: myself, that is.

“How can I tell if there’s an alux in my house?” he asked me out of nowhere as I approached his work station one afternoon.

The question surprised me, and I laughed, as did the others nearby. The fact is, an alux is not an evil being. It may be a mischievous one, but no more than that, and it wants no more than what we want for ourselves: respect for its person (if we can call it that) and respect for its property.

As far as I know, they don’t go into people’s homes unless people unwittingly bring them inside, for these little beings “are alive by night and petrified by day,” as was explained to me by Doña Marta Cetina of Peto, whose husband had his fingers tugged by one of these little spirits one night while he was trying to sleep way out in the forest.

Indeed, the elders, well versed in these truths, call the alux by their full name: alux k’at, they say, in reference to their being made of clay.

The untouched woods are the sacred homes of these little beings, and this is why, when a man goes to clear a plot to plant a milpa, he makes sure to thank the spirits that dwell in these places, making them the necessary offerings.

These things took place a few miles from Peto, not far from Santa Rosa, Libre Unión, and Catmis, where Doña Marta’s husband lived through an episode that made him believe in the existence of the aluxes.

Working for a construction company, four men taking materials out to a ranch in the lower forest had to stop and sleep along the way when one of their tipper trucks broke down. Not long before, resting on a sort of makeshift altar by the side of the road, they had seen a little clay doll, so unusual, “so lovely” that one of them came up and touched it and, with a little curiosity and plenty of malice, gave it a few slaps on the back of the head.

The travelers could not sleep that night because, as soon as they laid down, someone started tugging on their fingers. They all climbed into the cabins of their trucks, but the pesky visitors kept on bothering the intruders.

For the man who had offended the little doll it went worst of all, for, as soon as the sun set, he was struck by a fever so high that he halucinated, seeing scenes that he described to the horror of the rest, since “they were things no one should see,” as Marta tells it.

An old man who was passing by asked what was going on and, once they told him, he told them off for trying to sleep in a place “with owners,” and he ordered the feverish man, if he did not want to die of overheating, that he had better go back to where he found the clay doll and, to show his remorse, ask it for forgiveness, giving it a fond stroke on the head and a kiss.

And so the man who had offended the alux was cured, and his companions came to believe in the diminuitive owners of the woods, which in the Mayab are tantamount to little spirits.

A Beautiful Snake-Woman

The Xtáabay exists. She is a beautiful woman who turns into a snake. My mother saw her sitting on a rock wall one evening at sunset. My grandfather on my father’s side beat her away one night when he was coming back from the milpa. 

Twilight is the witching hour of the Xtáabay, the pu’ujuy bird and the lightning bugs (xkóokay). That’s the time when souls set off for home, the moment of reflection, the moment when nobody would want to walk down a path almost eaten up by the xteses and the chi’ichi’bej.

Pity the little boy who walks alone at sunset, when the crickets start singing out loud, for the Xtáabay will follow him unseen through undergrowth and along rock walls, hidden by the thickening night. She will call out to him again and again to draw him towards her and then take him away to her dwelling.

But little boys, warned by their grandparents, don’t let themselves be tempted; they pick up their pace and cross themselves, whispering the names of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. 

“My God, of course she exists. I’ve seen her,” my mother Donata declared gravely one evening when we were asking her about the existence of this magical woman. “When I was a little girl, five or six years old, my parents sent me to the store to buy gas. That was back when parents used to give orders and you obeyed right away. It was getting dark and I was scared. There was nobody around, just a very lovely woman who was elegantly combing her hair, sitting on the rock wall. She smiled as she looked at me. ‘Come here,’ she gestured to me, and I was already walking towards her, thinking nothing of it, when I noticed that instead of two human feet she had two chicken feet.”

“I screamed out loud and took off running back towards the house, and your grandfather came out to meet me. They pulled me inside fast, and my papa, looking at my mama, said to her, quiet but loud enough for me to hear, ‘She’s seen the Xtáabay.’”

“It wasn’t my imagination. On that road, the elders said, others had seen her combing her hair, because she always kept her long hair looking lovely, and people less lucky than me have been taken captive by her and pulled into the woods, where they are left to their fate among the thorns.”

If you, by a stroke of bad luck, suddenly find yourself led along by a beautiful woman down a path you never chose to walk, is there any way to escape her?

My grandfather, Don Carmen, was able to free himself one night. A gruff man of strong words, with something of Emiliano Zapata about him, Don Carmen was practical and drastic. 

A woman with long hair addressed him as he returned from the milpa, and they got to talking along the way. She asked if he would do her the favor of escorting her to her house, since time had gotten away from her and night had fallen as she was running an errand. My grandfather noticed something strange about this woman as they walked along, and it seemed to him that where they were headed there was nothing but henequen fields, outside town as you make your way into the woods.

The woman was wearing a huipil and had her hair down, which is not so common among Maya women. Suddenly, she began to comb her hair, and he realized she was the Xtáabay because she is always combing her hair and constantly switching out her comb, made of the husk of the fruit of a tree whose name I don’t recall, but if you showed it to me I would recognize it at once.

Right then and there, Don Carmen bent down and took off his sandal, and with it he struck the woman over and over until she unbelievably shrank down into a green snake (juntúul ya’ax kaan) and slithered off quickly among the rocks and weeds. That’s how you fight off the Xtáabay. That’s her weakness: hitting her with a xanab k ́éewel (a sandal with a leather sole and henequen-thread strap that wraps around the foot and ankle).

Many others have seen the Xtáabay and would attest to it. Many, with a few drinks in them, have been taken away and abandoned in the marl mines, others lost in the woods only to return many days later, often with their clothes torn to shreds after stumbling hypnotized through rows of henequen.

Nonetheless, many too have seen this strange being walking on moonlit nights and passing them by, almost brushing against them but paying them no heed, for they did not mean to address her and had no bad intentions.

Many would attest that the Xtáabay exists and is a beautiful woman, but they would rather keep quiet out of caution, or because they can’t bring themselves to tell the tale.

Translated by Arthur Malcolm Dixon

Originally published in La mujer sin cabeza y otras historias mayas
Centro de Investigaciones y Estudios Superiores en Antropología Social, 2012

Photo: Camilo Contreras, Unsplash.

Aya allpayachu akurani
aya
upallalla chuyunyaq
simiyuq kanallaypaq

urpi ñawillaymi
kausayta munashkan
¡kay!
Wañuy
nina qaqa kañay pachapi
chaki sonqoypi

¡Ay!
Yana allpatam takani
mitu chakiyman
yaku makiyman

paralla chayaykamuy
intilla kanchiykamuy
llapa tulluymi
katkatashkan

chaki sonqoyñataqmi
tallikuykushkan
lambras qasa mayuchanman

¡Ay!
Sirkaypi jintil
yawar mitmaqniy
wichay apullay
qawariwayña
kausayqa
manam kausayñanchu

asnaq
pukium qoltutumushkan
kay
nanaq, ñausa

karu rinri pachapi
aya allpañachu kanipas
¡mamallay, taytallay!
Manañam
kay vida kanichu

jarawillaymi uyarikushkan
kay pacha
anan pachamanta
richaparikunapaq

Jarawi¹

Have I eaten the soil of the dead
that my tongue should dwindle soundlessly
into a fearful silence? 

My dove eyes
wish so much to live here!
Into Death
into the fire of the rocks
into the burning of the Earth
into my drained heart 

Alas!
I am digging black soil
on my feet of mud
on my hands of water

Rain come right away!
Sun brighten up at once!
All my bones
are shuddering 

And my dry heart
is spilling out
in the ravine
in the lambras trees²
where the small river runs.

Alas!
Venerable Apu,
your ancestral lineage,
blood of jintilis³, flows into my veins.
My loved Mountain Lord,
look at me at once!
Living in this world
is wellbeing no longer.

The fetid Puquio
is outflowing
across this tormented, blind, and deaf Earth.

My dear father, my dear mother,
I am the soil of the dead now.
I am dying among groans and tears.

But my Jarawi is being heard
from this ruined landscape
toward the higher universes
to arouse us
to feel the urge of life. 

Yana Chirapa

Mana yupiqmi kasqanki
yana puyu punchuyuq
uchku ñawiyuq upallalla
maypitaq makiki kanman
yuraq asiyniykipas 

sumaqta
qamta qawaykuptiypa
mana imam kasqanki 

qanwanmi puriyta munani
ukuyniypi rumi chinkaqta
tapuykunaypaq 

imanasqam
kay pacha wakcha?
Imanasqam
kay tuta mana killayuq?
Imanasqam
llaqtanchikpi

aya
jawan pura, jawan pura
Qorontallaña, kuchpa, kuchpa
sapachallanku
manchariy pinchityaq
tuta chaupimpi?

Yana chirapa wari taytallay
qam piña, piña
wañuchikuq kaq
kay vidapa manam
juchaykichu, ripukusun

qawaykullasaq
yana chirapaykita
pachakunaman
llakiyta anyaykunaypaq
asiyniyta pukuykunaypaq
manchariyniytapas
sonqoykipi pakaykunaypaq. 

Yana Chirapa⁴

You, the one with no footsteps
with a poncho of black cloud
and emptied eyes,
how softly you walk into the night

Where might I find your hands,
your white smile? 

I saw you and I saw you so many times
and you have been nothing. 

I wish I were walking in your company
toward the lost stone
in the depths of my insides

Please, give me your advice:
Why is this life, this time, abandoned?
Why is this night without the moon?
Why do the corpses
stacked like corontas⁵
one on top of the other
roll and roll alone across our land
in the middle of the anguish that glows
tonight?

My father Wari
Yana Chirapa
Severe Lord
who kills with ire
You are not guilty for this life 

The time has come,
reveal to me your black rainbow,
show it to all the worlds
to let my laments sound
to blow away my smiles
and hide my terror
in your heart.

Translated from Quechua to English by Christian Elguera

The translator expresses his gratitude to the author and the poets Gloria Cáceres Vargas and Fredy Roncalla for their insights and feedback.

From the poetry collection Jarawi (1999)

1 Song of death.
2 Traditional tree in Andean landscapes.
3 Ancestors in the Andean world.
4 The Mountain Lord Wari transforms into a black rainbow. Whoever sees this lethal deity dies, vomiting blood.
5 Corn husk.

Photo: ALEX LENZ, Unsplash

Damurida

Cheguei-cheguei!
Pedi à minha mãe caldo de peixe:
–Mãaaaaae, quero caldo de piranha!
Berrei-berrei!
Ela não quis fazer coisa nenhuma
A voz fina-fininha saiu do quarto, provavelmente de sua cabeca repousada no pilo:
–Água, tomate e pimentão.
…
Só isso…
E sal e chicória…
Só.
…

Catei as murupis plantadas pela minha lady e moqueei o peixe.
Os ancestrais acharam que pelo caldo podiam conversar comigo
No entanto, Makunaima me encontrou em sonho só sete anos mais tarde
Finalmente, eu saberia que as histórias dos encantados também eram a minha história.
Urî-sane-tî, urî-sane-tî, Insikiran pia
Eu-sou-eu, eu-sou-eu, filha de Insikiran 

A damurida, prato tradicional de meu povo
já fazia parte, de um jeito mágico, de meu paladar.
Mesmo assim, eu não sabia que seria um caminho para reconhecer
mais tarde minha
              tradição.
I´kareme kî waitî
Estou dizendo pra você
Verdes amarelas e vermelhas
As pimentas dançam no rio da minha memória,
invocando a antiga canção dos antepassados que me chama de volta
pra casa.

Quando Makunaima criou a vó,
              Ele colocou em seu coração a alma da pimenta,
              para que ela pudesse se proteger dos mariwa.
Deu certo, ela viveu mais de cem anos.
Minha luta é honrar a luta da avó: todos os dias, incansavelmente, e
para sempre.

Lutar contra os espíritos capturadores de nossos espíritos, daquilo que nos
endurece e nos torna incapazes de transformação todos os dias
I´kareme kîiiiii waitîiiiii
Eu estou dizendo para você (ri-uí-li)
Verdes, amarelas e vermelhas
Dançam nos meus sonhos
Embalando o ritmo de meu encontro com Anikê e Insikiran
Verdes, amarelas e vermelhas
Verdes verdes verdes
Vermelhas vermelhas vermelhas
Amarelas amarelas amarelas até o infinito

Damurida

¡Llegué, llegué!
Pedí a mi madre caldo de pescado
Mamaaaaaá, ¡quiero caldo de piraña!
¡Grité y grité!
Ella no quiso hacer cosa alguna
Su voz suave, finita, salió del cuarto, tal vez reposando su cabeza sobre el cojín
–Agua, tomate, pimiento
…Solo eso…
–Sal y chicoria
…Solo…
… 

Toqué los murupis plantados por mi señora y herví el pescado
Los ancestros creyeron que por el caldo podían hablar conmigo
Mientras tanto, Makunaíma me encontró en un sueño solo siete años después
Finalmente conocería que las historias de los encantados también era mi propia historia Urî-sane-tî, urî-sane-tî, Insikiran pia
Yo-soy-yo, yo-soy-yo, hija de Insikiran 

Damurida, plato tradicional de mi pueblo,
ya era parte de mi paladar por un orden mágico,
Sin embargo, yo no sabía que sería un camino para, más tarde,
Reconocer
              mi tradición
I´kareme kî waitî
Estoy diciendo para ti
Verdes amarillas rojas
Los pimientos danzan en mi río de memorias
Invocando la canción ancestral de los antepasados que me guían de nuevo
para la casa 

Cuando Makunaíma creó a la abuela,
Colocó en su corazón el alma del pimiento
Para que ella pudiera protegerse de los mariwa o espíritus malignos
Y fue verdad. Ella vivió más de cien años
Mi lucha es honrar la lucha de mi abuela: todos los días, sin cansancio y para siempre

Luchas contra los espíritus que capturan nuestros espíritus, contra aquello que
Nos vuelve insensibles, incapaces de transformarnos día a día.
I´kareme kîiiiii waitîiiiii
Estoy diciendo para ti (ri-uí-li)
Verdes, amarillas, rojas
Los pimientos bailan en mis sueños
Envolviendo el ritmo de mi encuentro con Anikê, con Insikiran
Verdes amarillas rojas
Verdes verdes verdes
Rojas rojas rojas
Amarillas amarillas amarillas hasta el infinito

Damurida

“I am here, I am here”
I asked my mother for fish soup
Motheeeeeer, I want piranha soup!
I screamed and screamed
She did not want to make anything
Her fine soft voice came out of the room, perhaps her head was resting on a cushion
Water, tomatoes, bell pepper
Only that
Salt and chicory
Only…

I touched the murupis planted by my mother and I boiled the fish
The ancestors believed they could speak with me through the soup
Meanwhile, Makunaíma found me in a dream just seven years after that.
Finally, I will know the stories of the enchanted are also my history
Urî-sane-tî, urî-sane-tî, Insikiran pia
I-am-me, I-am-me, daughter of Insikiran 

Damurida, a traditional dish from my land
was part of my palate by a magic order
However, I did not know it would be a route for recognizing
–years later—
              my tradition
I´kareme kî waitî
I am speaking to you
Green, yellow, red
The bell peppers dance in my river of memories
Invoking the old music of my ancestors that guides me again
Back home

When Makunaíma created the grandmother
He put the pepper’s soul in her heart
So that she could protect herself from the mariwa, the bad spirits,
And it was true. She lived more than one hundred years.
My fight is to honor my grandmother’s fight every day without fatigue and forever.

Fight against the spirits that seize our souls
against what makes us inconsiderate and incapable of daily transformation.
I´kareme kîiiiii waitîiiiii
I am speaking to you (ri-uí-li)
Green, yellow, red
The bell peppers are dancing in my dreams
cradling the rhythm of my encounter  with Anike, with Insikiran
Green, yellow, red
Green, green, green
Red, red, red
Yellow, yellow, yellow until infinity

O boto

Na ponta da canoa
O canto ecoa
Lá vem o boto!

 Da proa da canoa
Dá pra ver o boto
Brincando com o vô

 Lá vem o boto
No pé do Apeú
Atrás do canto!

 O boto gosta de canto!

 Um encantado faz o quê?
Canta!
Por isso ele veio!
Por isso ele vem!

 Às vezes homem
Às vezes criança
Às vezes mulher

 Da ponta da canoa
Quem ele é?

 Ô boto bonito
Me leva pra ver o teu mundo?
No balanço do maracá
O canto ecoa
Ecoa o canto!

El boto (el delfín) 

En la punta de la canoa
El canto resuena
Aquí viene el boto

Desde la proa de la canoa
se puede ver al boto
Jugando con el abuelo

Aquí llega el boto
sobre la margen del río Apeu
Detras del cántico

El boto adora los cantos

¿Qué es lo que hace un encantado?
¡Canta!
Por eso vino
Por eso viene

Algunas veces hombre
Otras veces niño
Tal vez mujer

En la punta de la canoa,
¿Quien es él?

El boto bonito
¿Me llevas a ver tu mundo?
En el son de las maracas
El canto resuena en el viento
Resuena el canto

The Boto (The Dolphin)

On the deck of the canoe
The song resounds
Here comes the boto

From the bow of the canoe
It is easy to watch the boto
playing with the grandfather

Here comes the boto
On the banks of the river Apeú
Behind melodies.
The boto enjoys the singing. 

What does an enchanted one do?
He chants
For this reason, he comes
For this reason, he came

Sometimes as a man
On occasion as a child
At times as a woman

On the deck of the canoe
Who is he? 

Will the beautiful boto
Take me to see your world? 

In the swing of the maracas
The song resounds in the air
the song resounds

Vô Madeira 

O vô correu correu
Com as piranhas e os botos,
Com as jatuaranas e os tambaquis,
Com as cobras e os jacarés,
Com todas as gentes não-humanas do rio; 

O vô era um encantado
E por vezes trocava de pele pra ver como andava o mundo
Às vezes vinha de gente, outras de mangueira, algumas vezes perdida, de jaguatirica; 

Um dia, num de seus passeios, o vô viu alguns de seus netos em cima de dragas
no meio do rio:
Bêbados!
Jogando prato, prata, pano, plástico
Parem.
O vô chorou.
O dinheiro é o veneno da alma. 

O vô achou que ia parar
Ouro, correntes, pulseirinhas, anéis, casamentos, filhos, netos, bisnetos, tataranetos,
Sem água.
O vô podia ser eterno
Mas fez a travessia jovem. 

Só que ninguém sabia que quando ele se fosse
Todas as gentes iam também.
E foi assim que nós desaparecemos.
Feito fome
Feito sede
Feito noite
Feito morte.

Abuelo Madera 

El abuelo corrió y corrió
Junto a las pirañas y los botos,
Junto a las jaturanas y los tambaquis,
Con las cobras y los jacarés
Con las gentes no-humanas del río. 

El abuelo estaba encantado
Y muchas veces cambiaba de piel para ver cómo iba el mundo
A veces era humano, otras árbol de mango, algunas veces jaguatirica. 

Cierto día, paseando, el abuelo vio a algunos de sus nietos trepados sobre dragas,
Allí en medio del río
¡Borrachos!
Arrojando platos, plata, trapos, plástico
¡Deténganse!
El abuelo lloró
El dinero es el veneno del alma. 

El abuelo pensó que debía parar
Oro, corrientes, pulseritas, anillos, matrimonios, hijos, nietos, bisnietos, tataranietos,
Sin agua.
El abuelo podía ser eterno
Pero, aun joven, hizo su viaje. 

Nadie sabía que cuando se fuese
Todas las gente también se irían
Y fue así como desaparecimos.
Consumado de hambre
Consumado de sed
Consumado de noche
Consumado de muerte

Madeira Grandfather

The grandfather ran and ran
with the piranhas and botos,
the jaturana and the tambaqui,
the cobras and the jacarés,
with the non-human peoples of the river.

The grandfather was enchanted,
And sometimes he changed his skin to visit the world
on occasion, he comes as a human, other times as a mango tree, at times as a jaguatirica

One day, on one of his trips, the grandfather saw some of his grandchildren on
mining dredges
Drunk!
Dumping first dishes, then chemicals, then textiles and plastics
in the middle of the river
Stop!
The grandfather cried out
Money is the poison of the soul.

The grandfather thought he should desist
Gold, streams, bracelets, rings, marriages, kids, grandchildren, great-grandchildren
Without water
The grandfather could be eternal
But he made his trip early

Nobody knew that when he left
Everyone would depart as well
Just like this, we disappeared
Consumed by hunger
Consumed by thirst
Consumed by night
Consumed by death

Translations into Spanish and English by Christian Elguera

I

Onmochuquilihticah atzintli
¿Tlein tlahuelilucayotl topan ohuetz?
Zan cactimani, chachalacahcactimani
quemeh cuac atlatlacamaniliztli ye huitz;
itlamian opeuh.
Otlahuelcuehcueputz Ayotlahcupa,
totlalnantzin onehuitecoc auh hueyac apantli onetlapuluc;
ipanon iatzin atezcatl nehnemita:
¡iyezzo, imatca inemiliz, omohmoyauh queh ilnamicoca in
huehcapatemictli!
Axan ¿campa motlaminazqueh in xuhuilin, in axulutl, in atepucatl, in
acucilin?
Chinampanecatl ¿canin cahziz atapalacatl inic chinampanchihuaz?
¿Can netultequiloz inic nechihchihualoz petlatl, chiquihuitl huan
tulnechihchiuhtli?
Cecuizcapa ¿campa motapahzultizqueh tzitzihuah, atapalcatl auh
atepun?
¿Canin onmochantilizqueh ahuacahtzitzintih, ehecatzitzintih huan
michcihuatzitzintih?
Tla ahmo oncah atezcatl ¿quenin netlacualoz, netzutzumatiloz,
nemiloz, neyulilhuiloz, nehuentiloz?

II

Telhuia tetlahtzin Blandino Palacios cuac atezcatl onetlahualoc
Tlapacoyampa onenextiloc tepuzmecaxipanultic ome
michcihuatechihchiuhtli,
mach yehhun otlahuelquiahuia auh otlahuelamehmeyaya,
mach pampa on atezcatl omoyulitiaya.
Otelhuiaya tetlahtzin Daniel Galicia in ehecacuhcuhuah
mach Tlapacoyancupa ohualeuhtayah,
mach ompa, ameyalnahuac, oquipieyah inchan,
cah omixpantiayah mocharruquentizqueh,
yehuan inihqueh tlilcharrumeh,
mach cuac atezcatl otlahuac Tlahuacpa ohualpaxaluhtayah,
cah nican oquimixtlaliayah in cihcihuah inic monamictizqueh,
mach yehuan oquinmahpalehuiayah inic netitlaniloz quiahuitl,
atlatlacamaniliztli huan tecihuitl.
Otelhuiaya tetlahtzin Domingo Martínez in ahuatutun
otlahuelcualanqueh
immanun otlahuelquiauh auh oatlatlacamanilihtihuetz,
zanniman in apantli omotlapanito
huan atzintli occehpa omoyeyantihtzinohco in can yutlahuac.

IV

¿Tlica otechmocahuilihtehuac iyulchicahualiz teoatzintli?
¿Tlica ahuahqueh, ehecameh huan ehecacuhcuhuah chohcholohtah?
¿Ahquehuan tlahtlaculehqueh?
Axan ¿campa tohuentizqueh?
¿In ahquehuan tiquintlahtlanilizqueh mah techonmotitlanilihcan
quetzalatzintli?
¿Ahquehuan quixotizqueh tochinampan?
Noriega huan Díaz otechoncuihcuilihqueh ocachi miec cah zan ce atezcatl: otechonquixtilihqueh hueyi toanimancohcotohtzin…

Cuando el poder de las aguas nos abandonó

I

Las aguas están llorando
¿qué maldición ha caído sobre nosotros?
Sólo hay silencio, silencio ruidoso,
de aquella calma que presagia la tormenta;
ha comenzado el fin.
Por el rumbo de Ayotla se ha oído un gran estruendo,
han herido a nuestra madre tierra y abierto un extenso canal;
por él van circulando las aguas del lago:
¡su sangre, su vida misma, se va diluyendo como los recuerdos de un
sueño profundo!
Ahora ¿en dónde nadarán el juil, el ajolote, el atepocate y el acocil?
El chinampero ¿de dónde sacará el césped para construir sus
chinampas?
¿En dónde se cortará el tule para fabricar los petates, los cestos y el
tularco?
Durante el invierno, ¿en dónde anidarán el golondrino, el pato tepalcate
y el zambullidor?
¿En dónde vivirán los dueños del agua, los aires y las sirenas?
¿Cómo se comerá, se vestirá, se vivirá, se reflexionará, se ofrendará si ya
no existe el lago?

II

Dice el tío Blandino Palacios que cuando desecaron el lago
por Tlapacoyan encontraron dos grandes sirenas de piedra encadenadas,
que dizque por eso llovía en abundancia y brotaban muchos «ojos de agua»,
que dizque por eso el lago se mantenía vivo.
Decía el tío Daniel Galicia que las «culebras de agua»
dizque venían de Tlapacoyan,
que allá, junto a los manantiales, tenían su hogar,
que se presentaban ante los hombres vestidos de charros,
que ellos eran los «charros negros»,
que cuando secaron el lago se venían a pasear a Tláhuac,
que acá venían a conseguir sus mujeres,
que ellas les tenían que ayudar para mandar la lluvia, las tempestades y el
granizo.
Decía el tío Domingo Martínez que los enanitos del agua se enojaron mucho;
que entonces la lluvia arreció y cayeron varias tempestades,
que luego se agrietó el canal de navegación
y las aguas volvieron a inundar el lecho recién desecado.

IV

¿Por qué nos abandona la fuerza del agua sagrada?
¿Por qué huyen los señores del agua, los aires y las culebras de agua?
¿Quiénes son los culpables?
Ahora ¿en dónde ofrendaremos?
¿A quiénes les pediremos que nos manden el agua?
¿Quiénes cuidarán nuestras chinampas?
Noriega y Díaz nos arrebataron más que un lago:
nos quitaron una gran parte de nuestra alma…

When the power of the waters abandoned us

I

The waters are weeping
What curse has fallen upon us?
there is only silence, clamorous silence,
the soft kind of calm that announces a storm;
the end has begun.
All down the road to Ayotla a tumultuous sound has been heard,
they have harmed our mother earth and opened an immense canal;
through it flow the waters of the lake:
her blood, her life itself, being diluted like the memories of a deep dream!
Now where will the ajolote, the juil, the atepocate and the acocil swim?
Where will the chinampero¹ find the plants to build his chinampas²?
Where will the tule be harvested to make the petates, the baskets, and the tularco?

Where will the swallow, the tepalcate duck, and the zambullidor make their nest during the winter?
Where will the rulers of the water, wind and sirens live?
How will we eat, dress, live, reflect, and give offerings if the lake ceases to exist?

II

Uncle Blandino Palacios says that when they dried the river up
near Tlapacoyan they found two great stone sirens chained,
they say that is why it rained abundantly and many “eyes in the water” emerged³,
they say that was why the lake stayed alive.
Uncle Daniel Galicia said the water serpents
maybe came from Tlapacoyan,
that there, next to the springs, they had their homes
and appeared in front of men dressed as charros,
that they were the “charros negros”
and when the businessmen dried the lake they used to visit Tláhuac,
they came here to find their women,
who had to help them send out the rain, the tempests, and the hail.
Domingo Martinez used to say that the water dwarves became very angry;
then the rain escalated and many tempests fell,
after that the navigation canal broke open
and the waters returned to flood the recently dried land.

IV

Why has the strength of the sacred waters abandoned us?
Why do the rulers of the water, the wind and the water serpents flee?
Who is to blame?
Now where will we continue our rituals?
Who will we ask to provide us with water?
Who will take care of our chinampas?
Noriega and Diaz seized from us much more than a lake:
they seized a vast portion of our soul…

Tonantzin

Titonantziné:
mah xitechmoxilanhuilih,
cah tomiquiliz onmocuepa cemihcanecehuilizzotl;
itech motlahtlauhcaxayacatzin
onneci totechializ, toicnunemiliz;
motlachializpa techihtitia
cehcemilhuiticah titechmocuitlahuihtzinohtinemi.

Mah moteoyohxilampa x’mocelilih toxinach;
mah mohtitzin moyulchihchicahuaz huan
melahuac ontlahtlachiez inic mixcuepaz in tunacayutl.

Moteotlahuilticah xitechmoyecanilih
auh xitechmomahnextilih can ica
tiohanazqueh inic toxehxeluzqueh
in ahquehuan quiichtectinemih inchicactequiuh
tocnihuan huan axcanticah moteixpanhuia
queh tecpantlacah…

Madre nuestra

¡Oh, madre nuestra!:
acógenos en tu seno,
que nuestra muerte represente el descanso eterno,
de tu rostro moreno brota nuestra esperanza
y se vislumbra nuestra vida de miseria;
tu mirada nos enseña que diariamente
vives cuidándonos.

Admite nuestra semilla en tu vientre sagrado,
que en tu interior se fortalezca y en verdad
despierte para convertirse en nuestro sustento.

Guíanos con tu luz divina
y enséñanos el camino a seguir,
por el cual nos apartemos de aquellos
que roban el arduo trabajo de nuestros hermanos,
y que hoy se presentan como los que nos gobiernan…

Mother Earth⁴

Oh mother!
Welcome us into your lap,
so that our death may represent eternal rest,
from your face, Morena Mother, arises our hope
and our miserable life is illuminated;
your gaze shows us that daily
you live protecting us.

Admit our seed into your sacred body,
so that it is made stronger inside you and genuinely
awakes to become our nourishment.

Guide with your holy light
and show us the path to follow,
through which we can leave behind those
who steal the hard work of our brothers,
and who present themselves as those who govern us today…

1 A chinampero is a person who cultivates chinampas.
2 Chinampas are an ancient method of agriculture used by indigenous cultures.
3 This expression refers to whirlpools.
4 During an interview (November 2023), the author explained that Tonatzin refers to Mother Earth.

Translated from Nahuatl to Spanish by Baruc Martínez
Translated from Spanish to English by Valeria Acosta

From In xochitl in kuikatl: 24 poetas contemporáneos en lengua náhuatl, edited by Martín Tonalmeyotl (Puebla: Fundación Universidad de las Américas, 2021)

Photo: Alfonso Navarro, Unsplash.

Lismaninitaw maxi lakgachixkuwinanaw,
lismaninitaw talakgatsekgaw,
paksi ntu liluwan kinkamakgakglhayan
litekg litekg kinkalakawanikgoyan,
lilakgawitiyaw likgalhkgamanan kilakgastapukan
chu kintantunkan
¡Limaxkgan!
Kataxtuta ntanu ntani xuku tanupap,
kalakgstipataxtukgota sipi
chu kalilakgchi minchixit luwana tachuwin
chu kastáwa mintachuwin nima makgasankgapat

Costumbres

Estamos acostumbrados a obedecer,
a esconder el rostro, nos asusta todo del luwan
nos saca la lengua,
nos marea
juega con nuestros ojos
con nuestros pies.
Limaxkgan
abandona tu escondite,
sal ya de entre las piedras
y con tus cabellos enreda la lengua del luwan
y teje el diálogo extraviado de ti mismo.

Traditions

We are used to being obedient,
To hiding our face,
Everything about the luwa’n¹ frightens us
The luwa’n stick their tongue out at us,
They make us dizzy
And play with our eyes
Play with our feet.
Limaxkgan²
Abandon your hideout,
Emerge from the stones
And entangle the tongue of the foreigner with your hair
And sew the disoriented dialogue of yourself.

Luwan

Chi wapi nakimputsaya nchali tuxama,
ni kintiputsaya wa kxtampin sipi,
ni para kxtampun kgalhtuchokgo.
Nitu klakgnuwaka kxliskayitwa kkalhtukunin
lala makatsinin taskgoyot.
Ni kintilakaputsaya wa kpuxkg
ni para kkaputlunin.
Nitu ktasekgnipulayan.
Lanchiyo klakgawanit, klatamaputun,
Lhtank kpixchipalh kintapikwa’
Klipixchukumakgnilh xmachita kintata.
Chu kwa mpi lanchiyó
Siin nawan kintachuwin chu namamuxti mintalakapastakni’

Extranjero

Si me buscas algún día,
no me busques debajo de las piedras,
ni en el fondo del río.
No estoy atrapado en el color de la espina
como te lo ha dicho el taskgoyot.
Que tus ojos no me busquen en la barranca
ni en un charco de lodo.
No huyo de ti.
Hoy desperté con ganas de vivir,
tomé del cuello a mi miedo
y lo degollé con el machete del abuelo.
Me dije que desde
hoy mi voz será la lluvia que inundará tu pensamiento.

Foreigner

If you search for me one day,
Don’t search under the stones,
Or at the bottom of the river.
I am not confined in the color of the spine
Like the taskgoyot³ has told you.
Don’t let your eyes search for me in the ravine
Nor in a puddle of mud.
I am not running away from you.
Today I awakened with the desire to live,
I grabbed my fears by the neck
And cut their throat with grandpa’s machete.
I told myself that starting today
My voice will be the rain that will drown your thoughts.

Putaknun

Kchilh uyanu kaktsu kachikin
tani akgtó wi putaknun.
Chali chali tlakg lakgtlanka wankgoy,
makgatunu makawán litalatna’
matankgalakan kgantum kiwi’
chu taxapay kgantum tiji’.

Chalhuwata kamanan
tikiya aknukgoy wa uyanu kkachikin,
nalhxawa ti kalitsintapulikgoy kkatijinin
nalhxawa xakgalhkgamananin lakchajan
nti chakganankgoy kkgalhtuchokgo.

Kaa tankgakgatit chiki’ puwilakgoka
uyanu k’aktsu kachikin,
xlimokgwa lakslipninkawan wa xchikkan
xalakgsputni xlakgskgatankan
antá kxkputaknunkan.

Uyama kamanan,
kputaknun takgskgolh xtakgtsiyajatkan
ntu xputsamakgolh kkakilhtamakú
chu nalh lilipuwankgo
palha namakgnipalakgokan amakgtum.

Cementerios

Llegué a vivir a este pueblo
donde se alzan dos cementerios.
Crecen sus bocas cada día,
cada que bailan las balas
se tumban árboles
y se borran caminos.

Son más los jóvenes en el cementerio
más que las risas en las polvorientas calles
y jolgorios de mujeres lavando en el río.

La gente de este pueblo
vive en casas de adobe y carrizo
y sus hijos reposan en pequeños castillos,
tumbas de azulejo.

Ahí, hallaron una paz
anhelada en el tiempo
y descansan serenos
de ser asesinados de nuevo

Cemeteries

I came to live in this town
Where two cemeteries stand.
Their mouths grow everyday,
Every time the bullets dance
The trees are toppled
And their paths erased.

There are more youths in the cemetery
More than the laughs in the dusty streets
And the cheerfulness of women doing laundry in the river.

The people of this town
Live in houses of adobe and straw
And their children rest
In minute castles
Tombs of tile.

The people found peace there
A peace yearned for for years
And rest in the serenity
Of not being murdered again.

Xnin kachikin

Cha uyanu kkaktsu kachikin
laktsina xmakanin maa nin
nakalinin xlatamat
laktlanka kgalhi xtantun
chu akglhuwa kgalhiy xlakgastap.

Cha maa nin uyanu kkachikin
nalh pukgalhkgalhikan xasasti xtikat
nipara xasasti tatawanu’
nipara xasasti akgpakgat.

Nalh likgalhkgalhitawilakan
xa’akgamuksun kabin
xlimokgo talalakaukxilhkani kgastin
laa ntatsekga chichini’.

Nalh kati’akgpixtini lanchin
nalh minkumpari tlawayan
chuwa ni waniyan
chilha minkilhtamaku.

La muerte del pueblo

Aquí en este pueblo
la muerte tiene las manos pequeñas
tiene una vida mortal
pasos grandes
y un millar de ojos.

En este pueblo, la muerte
ya no se espera en un petate nuevo
ni con huaraches nuevos
ni sombrero nuevo.

No se espera
con una taza de café humeante
mirando el rostro de la montaña
mientras se enfrasca el sol.

Ya no llega y te abraza
ni te llama compadre
ni dice
es turno de venir conmigo.

Death of the Town

Here in this town
Death has small hands
It has a mortal life
Wide steps
And a thousand eyes…

In this town, death
Is no longer anticipated with a new petate
Or with new huaraches
Nor a new hat.

It doesn’t wait
With a smoky cup of coffee
Looking at the face of the mountain
While the sun is hiding.

Death no longer hugs you when it gets here
Or calls you compadre
It doesn’t even say
It’s your turn to come with me.

1 In Tutunakú, this is the word for “foreigner.”
2 Tutunakú expression for “peasant.”
3 Evil dwarf or elf in Tutunakú.

Translated from Tutunakú to Spanish by Cruz Alejandra Lucas Juárez
Translated from Spanish to English by Andrea Heredia-Ortiz

Poems from Xlaktsuman papa’ / Las hijas de Luno (Puebla: Fundación Universidad de las Américas, 2021)

Photo: Cempasúchil, also known as “flor de muertos” or “flower of the dead,” by AA Román, Unsplash.

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¿Tii maa papa’? 

Akgtum jaxanat,
xkilhpin akgapun,
skitit xla lhtukit,
xtatsan katsisni’,
skgatanat
xmakasiyan kuyu’.
Kapsnat tani nalhkawiliyaw
xkilhtsukut kilatamatkan. 

 Who Is Luno? 

A sigh,
the sky’s lip,
masa for mixing atole,
the night’s tooth,
the armadillo’s waning claw,
a white page
for writing out the opening lines
of our history. 

Kintse’ xtalapaxkin papa’ 

Klakgmakgalh mintapaxkit
xlakata mintalapaxkini kintse’,
makgatunu skgatana’, makgatunu katlana’,
takatsiy pi chitana kxkgapinin
chu makgsakgsaya xaxanatwa xtalhtsi’.
Cha xlimakgwa nixtsuwana’
lakgacháni kintlat
kgantati kiwi’ chu kgantati xanat
antani tlawanita aktsu mimasakg. 

 My Mother Is Father Moon’s Lover 

I rejected your arrival
because you are my mother’s lover,
with every waxing and waning
you announce your arrival in her ravine
and seduce her seed-filled flower.
During your absences,
my father planted
four flowers and four trees
in the nest that you had created. 

Nana Tsívita I 

Laa kumu lakukakgó laktsu chichakg
laa nkilhwantasanikgo sin,
nanaa xla xkinkakukayan
kxaxanatwa kxstipun. 

Cha laa kaakuwa
aktsu skgata’ xakwanit,
kintilimakaxapamilh
xatuwan xkulimaxanat
kgamachi xwá nkilhtukit. 

Xtakgalhutawila xla laa xlakpimin chichini’,
x’an puxkgat x’akgsawat,
stikiki xta’akgsput’tawilapalanchu k’akgstin
ka tatantlilha xchuchut wa xtasiyu
slip slip xlay xatsitsokgo xlitampachi’. 

Xlakgpuwankgó lakxtakninkiwa chiwix
xalakspunpulu xtantun
xtantutsukkgoy
tani xtantupankgonit,
kaa xakkgalhkgalhitawila kitinchu
xaklikgotnamputuna xlistakna Xtakgayaw 

 Nana Tsívita I 

She lulled me to sleep
on her flowered shoulders
just like frogs carry their young
bringing May’s rains with their croaking. 

When the white orchids sprouted,
she crushed moon-white leaves
on the petals of my hands
so my atole would be the sweetest. 

With her three-handled jug she went
down to the river at the sun’s first glimmer,
later while climbing the mountain,
she seemed to dance with the water
to the rhythm of her red hips. 

Green rocks longed to be caressed
by her bare feet,
holding kisses
in the cracks of her heels
as I waited to drink
from Xtakgayaw Mountain’s heart. 

Nana Tsívita II 

Xtsuku xkuliy xaxkut
la kxchakgan kinchikkan,
xtsuku nchuwani mumu,
laa xkinkamakatsiniputunan ntu nitlan. 

Xwan mpi ni tlan likgamanankan chuchut,
xlakata natiyay kiakpunkan,
nakinkamakgalhkuyatlayan
chu laktsu laktsu natlaway xmasakg kintalakapastaknikan. 

Kinkamasuyunin lala tasantikan papa’,
lala naktapachiyaw chamakxkulit
xalakgtsitsakga kinchixitkan. 

Nana Tsívita II  

When the owl behind the house
began its hooting,
trying to bring us misfortune,
she replied with tobacco between her lips. 

She forbade us to play with water,
because it might possess us,
scalding us from within
and wrecking our memory’s nest. 

She showed us how to flirt with Luno
and how to trap rainbows
in our cascading braids. 

Nana Tsívita III  

Wapi nalh katilakganakgalhi xla klhkuyat,
wapi namakgaxtakg xakgsawat
chu nakinkamakglhputiniyan,
¿Ti natlawayi xtaskujut? 

¿Ti nalakgamakgakglhayi nitlan ‘un?
¿Ti namalakgawitiyi mumu
chuwa ti nakinkalixakgatliyani papa’?
¿Ti natlawani xtiji nkinkuxtakan? 

¿Ti na xakgatliyi ntsakglhni’
chuwa ti nakinkalilakgmaxtuyan tokgxiwa’
la natiyayi kiakpunkan? 

Wa xpalakata jkatsinima,
kmakgastakmaw akgatunu talakapastakni’,
kmakgtaya ni naakgmixiyi lhkuyat
chuwa lakxtum kmakgskgalayaw mpi nataspitkgoy kinkuxtakan. 

Kakgspuntlawan xtantunin
tlakg chi pulhman natalhkatawilakgoy
chuwa nichi xapamakgolhi nitla ’un. 

Nana Tsívita III  

If she stops feeding the fire,
if she abandons the water jug
and leaves us with thirsty tongues,
who will do her work? 

Who will scare away evil spirits?
Who will silence the owl
and tell us about the moon?
Who will make the journey to know their kuxta? 

Who will speak with the raindrops
and cure us with elderberry leaves
to liberate our spirits? 

This is why I learn from her,
harvest each thought with her,
help her stoke the cooking fire
and together we assure our kuxta will return. 

I walk in her footsteps
to deepen her footprints
so the wind will never erase them. 

Translated from Spanish and Tutunakú by Wendy Call and Whitney Devos

Originally published in World Literature Today, vol. 97, no. 5 (September 2023)

.

Photo: Motohiro Sunouchi, Flickr.

Photo: Axel Rivera

Wendy Call is author of the award-winning nonfiction book No Word for Welcome, co-editor of the anthologies Telling True Stories and Best Literary Translations, and translator of three books of poetry by Indigenous Mexican women. She lives in Seattle, on Duwamish land, and in Oaxaca, Mexico, on Mixtec and Zapotec land. 

Whitney DeVos is a scholar, translator, and writer. Much of her current work focuses on lenguas originarias, the autochthonous languages of the Americas. She lives in Mexico City, where she is studying Náhuatl with the support of an NEA Translation Fellowship and a Global South Translation Fellowship from Cornell University’s Institute for Comparative Modernities.

These poems by Miriam Esperanza Hernández Vázquez were translated directly from Ch’ol to English by Carol Rose Little and Charlotte Friedman; they are therefore presented without translations into Spanish.

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K’uxbä kolel 

Junp’ej k’iñ tyi chilbeñtyiyoñ jkolel.
CHe’ tyi ksäklä
tyi ktyaja tyi ipaty ibäk’ juloñib,
buts, butsñabä ibuts’il.
Jiñi jkolel chokol ya’ tyi bij,
ya’ tyi ixäk’ bij baki tyi ujtyi tsäñsaj,
tyi ichupil ibä’tyal ajsajtyel,
tyi ixujk jiñi matye’el.
Xtsäñsajob tyi ibä’tyisäyob
yik’oty ijuloñi’tyak jiñi jkolel,
tyi ijok’beyoñob lok’el tyi ktyojlel,
lajal tyi itsäñsäyob yik’oty iwäy kyum. 

 The Day They Stole My Childhood 

 I found the bullet

                                           the barrel  

                             still smoking  

A murder on the road  

                                          a body  

                           devoured by maggots 

Frightened by rifles  

                                          my childhood  

                           hid at the forest edge  

They killed  

                                         me  

                           and my grandfather’s wäy* 

* wäy – personal guardian spirit that takes the form of an animal 

X-ila 

La’ixme, la’ixme tyi awotyoty,
la’ix k’uxu awaj awik’oty atyaty aña’,
mach iweñta ityä’lañety ajmoso,
¿baki kächä icha’añety?
¿baki choñkol ityä’lañety?
la’ix k’uxu awaj awik’oty atyaty aña’,
la’ix k’ele api’älob, la’ix tyi alas awik’otyob,
añba amul, añba atyajñal,
aläletyo, ma’añ chuki tyi axujch’ibeyob,
ma’añku tyi alowoyob,
ak’eñix ikoletyob tyälel tyi awotyoty,
la’ixme aläl, la’ix,
la’ix k’uxu awaj awik’oty atyaty aña’. 

 X-ila* 

Come! Come home! 

Eat with your parents. The boys can’t harm you.
Did they tie you up?
How did they hurt you? Come, eat
your food with your parents.
See your friends. Play! Are you at fault?
Have you sinned?
You are still young, nothing’s stolen.
They’re not hurt.
Let them free, you can return home.
Come, child—
your food, your father, your mother. 

* healer, the one who cares 

Translated by Carol Rose Little and Charlotte Friedman

Originally published in World Literature Today, vol. 97, no. 5 (September 2023)

.

Photo: Tila, Chiapas, by Joan C Wrenn, Flickr.

Carol Rose Little is an assistant professor of linguistics at the University of Oklahoma. She has been working in Ch’ol communities in Chiapas, Mexico, since 2015. Her translations of Ch’ol poetry with Charlotte Friedman have been published in Exchanges, Hayden’s Ferry Review, and elsewhere.

Charlotte Friedman is a poet, translator, and teacher. Her poetry has been published in journals such as Timberline Review, Intima, and elsewhere. Friedman and Carol Rose Little’s translations of Ch’ol poetry have been published in World Literature Today and elsewhere.

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Mamaku mushgoymanta 

Niy shuk machula mushgoymanta:
Cay kamachik cay away yachay llanchay khuskan tutayay
Cay Kamachik cay rumi t´ikiy mallkiri qellkay yachay yuyaykuna
Cay Kamachik cay riqsiy qurakuna kara kukuri
Cay kamachik cay wachakuq warmi ima chaskiy kawsay P´uyunqu suyakuy
Cay kamachik cay yachay ñawinchay kawsay saywakuna wañuyri
Cay kamachik cay Yachay intiksiqamunan sumak kawsay;
Willakuq mushgoy, mamaku hap´iy nina imallapas shimimanta
Shimiwanri nina callu phukuy runa sonkoymanta
Imata manajaik´aj cay qunkay munaypay sachamanta makanakuykuna kawsayk.
Hinan ppatmay teksita qatiy yanay
Awkina kamachikri ima pusaykachak runamanta mushgoykuna 

Grandmother in the Dream 

Said a grandmother while dreaming:
To be a sage is to weave with skill and cast light in the midst of darkness
To be a sage is to write memories by carving into stone and tree
To be a sage is to know the herbs that heal body and soul
To be a sage is to be a midwife who receives life on a bed of hope
To be a sage is to know how to read signs of life and death
To be a sage is to know how to make language and the word flourish
To be a sage is to know how to guide others in the art of living;
Having spoken her dream, the grandmother took some fire in her mouth
And with her tongue breathed hot flame into the human heart
So that memory of the old struggles for life might never be forgotten.
Then she departed for the cosmos as the spirit and sage
Who guides the dreams of our people. 

Shimi Wawakuna 

Imaypacha wawakuna
Shimi churay
Koyllurkuna k´anchay
Allpakuna taki huc kindiri
Chonccay yawar tikapi
Pay runa shimi cay kawsay muyumanta 

Words and Children 

When children
Grasp words
The stars shine
The earth sings and
Hummingbirds drink from red flowers
Human language springs to life from a seed 

Translated from the Spanish by Daniel Simon

Originally published in World Literature Today, vol. 97, no. 5 (September 2023)

Photo: White-bellied woodstar hummingbird, Upper Las Tangáras Reserve, Colombia, by Doug Greenberg, Flickr.

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The millennial grandparents of the Quechua Yanakuna universe, in the Colombian massif, have transmitted to us that the original mother is a Tapuku and that her territory is the uterus, in which she germinates life to be watered by the universe. Let’s consider the origin story as it gave rise to the word and the meaning of life from sound:

From the ancient word of the Quechua Yanakuna universe, they say that the first beings who populated this earth came in the form of vapor and were also called Tapukus because they emerged from the bottom of the earth, and when they came to the surface some made the sound of tapuk… tapuk… tapuk… and others responded ku… ku… ku… So they kept jumping and trying to fly. The great father Waira, who was the wind, took them by the hand and took them to his domain, and soon they were turning the earth white, then some tapuk and other ku did not want to follow the great father Waira and gathered together, forming a great shadow, then from that shadow a mass arose, forming an original body that had the sound and the sign of the two, of Tapuk and ku.

Father Waira, feeling rejected, blew hard on this mass, which was taking the shape of a large drop and then took the shape of a woman. Father Waira continued to blow and threw it into the air, but the mass already had a woman’s body. With the force of the wind, the shadow was making the two sounds of tapuk ku, tapuk ku, then the great father, observing that it was a woman, decided to call her Tapuku and accompany her in flight to form with her body the navels of water, the lagoons, the rivers, and the ravines. She was singing, brushing her body in the dark with her sound and breath, the warm and cold waters were forming. The great father Waira blew softly, and thus the waters that began to course through the universe began to well up.

This story allows me to talk a little about the word in a time when humanity is called to witness the transformation of consciousness. There is a reality in relation to our worldviews, our languages and records as original peoples. We say that we are people whose word assembles the first school of life orally, the mandates of Mother Earth, legends, songs and stories of fire, and the sweet word from what we call “the three tulpas of knowledge,” our reality next to Pachamama, (Mother Earth), Mama Yaku (water), the Urkus (mountains), and the spirits. That has been our truth, and even today, even if we walk around the city, we feel that we are a body and at the same time walking territory. We have the memory and knowledge of our oldest grandparents because said knowledge has been handed down from generation to generation through the word. The word and the sounds as elements found the origin of life and the creative mother and father, whom we must thank.

In that flight between “oral tradition” and “writing,” we are people of the water and the wind, we are stars of the universe, we have ancient knowledge, but we have also had to learn to handle different elements that have been taking place in the contemporary world, be it communication or other activities. We also globalize our resistance, our searching, and we remain in the proper place that harmonizes with us in the process of creation and re-creation of life as well as in the preservation of knowledge and transmission of hope for a better world.

As Quechua Yanakuna people, in my case, I write from orality to generate a “Chaka,” a bridge between what has been transmitted from the word, the way of naming and writing to preserve the memory of our culture, the songs, legends, sounds, languages, and traditions. Our relationship with Mother Earth, with our spirits, with nature, and with water as the source of origin is indissoluble because magic remains in the language and the word that life gave us since the time of our ancestors.

Now, we know that what we call oral tradition started with the first visions that human beings had about the color of Mother Earth and the language of nature, awe at the force of thunder, the roar of the jaguar, the immeasurable flight of the condor, the message of the eagle in the immensity of blue space. Then it was the gesture, the movement of the hands, the lips, the eyes that gave signs of astonishment when witnessing the manifestations of nature, and later came the sign or symbol that would leave the mark on the passage of something along a path or, perhaps, on what was observed in relation to nature. This is how the first signs arose in stone, in wood, in sand.

With the passage of time, beautiful legends, myths, tales, and worldviews were woven where gods and goddesses nest and give meaning to life on earth. This is how the word was configured, from ceremonial songs to pay homage to the divine, to the mystery of night and the stars, or to the splendor of the sun. Then the word arose to name those sounds of the earth, it came from the very voice of the birds, from the same roar of the animals, perhaps from the same cries of anguish in the face of the unknown; only then were thunder and lightning named in this way, only in different languages they were “voice of space,” “voice of the creator being,” and so on. In the Quechua world it was called “illapa,” which perhaps was meant to decipher that powerful sound of thunder and that glow of light which falls as energy on the earth. It was in this permanent dialogue with the birds, with the animals of the jungle and mountains, with the spirits that the different languages—which give meaning and different interpretations to the human presence in nature—arose.

Many years had to pass so that in the heart of the word, from the languages and from generation to generation, the fullness and the abysses were woven into the heart, the human adventures and misadventures in a filial relationship between earth, humans, animals, spirits. Likewise, so that they could exercise various pictographic forms and also various forms of language and thus be able to understand one another.

From the messages of the smoke, the songs of drums and instruments such as the maguare, the pututo or the shell, the signs on rocks, the fabrics, the traces on the roads, the colored knots called quipus among the Incas, all continued to name the world.

In the story of water’s origin as the uterus of the universe, the sound and the sign are imprinted, the unity with the maternal womb from where the first drop makes its first sounds to condense the word “tapuku,” which becomes the female or male creator from the origin of existence in the Quechua Yanakuna world, a being that feeds on steam and that from the Quechua language names the “uku,” which is the underworld, the place from where it ascended to help create life and then ascend to the third world and remain in the clouds and the cosmos.

The word of origin that takes up the sound, as if it were a baby that babbles, that hums, that imitates the bird between smiling and crying until it becomes more formidable each day in naming the present and the absent and then, in the framework of sorrows, in the gloom, in the uprooting, to be able to endure and not lose hope of continuing to transmit dreams of life.

This word was later written with other signs and with a feather crown of medicine by great scholars, but smeared with blood due to the constant invasions, and since the letters are not to blame for anything, they allowed us to describe our greatness and also the pain of our people. With their own or dominated languages, it was possible to narrate and read the deeds of beings made of flesh and blood or beings that emerge from different imaginative worlds and that have also allowed us to endure in the face of new challenges.

Writing is somehow meeting distant or close voices, drinking from sources where the word has been a symbol of resistance through Indigenous languages, but it is also going to other spaces that require our orality and in which other kinds of languages are understood. We write in the native language to remember each moment that we are brothers in chaos, in dreams of building new worlds full of peace and harmony.

We say that we are in a time of transformation of consciousness, as the Amawtas have called it from our Quechua world, the wise spiritual guides who mention the signs of the flourishing of languages, songs and traditions of the peoples for good treatment together with Mother Earth, the new era of renewal of consciousness in the human heart, the era of love, the era in which Pachamama, the mountain, the river, the jungle are constantly expressing themselves about the order and disorders of humanity.

For these reasons, the original languages and the spoken word from our worldview are in resistance to the different eras of colonialism, but at the same time, it is the word that inquires about the memory of Mother Earth and nature to contribute seeds to the construction of a world with values and a brotherhood that allow us to safeguard the planet.

We must continue walking with the wisdom of the original peoples and seek a closer relationship between human beings, trees, stones, water. You must make an offering to the land to give thanks for life, and you have to continue weaving harmony in circles of community. If we manage to strengthen the first circles of life, we will advance in the universal purpose, that is: to achieve harmony in the family as the first circle, then in the community, and so on until reaching the universal.

It is true that there is no possible perfection, for life itself has chaos embedded in it, but the word of creation, which names the ruler of the water, the wind, the stars, challenges us to become aware of the search for balance in the human heart to guide life in a better way and return to the womb of essence, to the origin.

I end with a saying from the Quechua language:

ñocanchiska shimi runa ñocanchisca rumi yaku sonkoymanta allpamantawauki cay runa churik causayta

We are human words, we are stone, heart of water, brothers of the earth, we are children for life.

Translated from the Spanish by Daniel Simon

Originally published in World Literature Today, vol. 97, no. 5 (September 2023)

Photo: Puracé Volcano in the Colombian Massif, courtesy of Wikipedia.

Editor’s Note:

Rech kqak’ama chi jumul ri quxlab’al

Kinch’ab’ej kichoqab’il ri e nab’e taq winaq, ri e qatit,
ri xkitik kan ruk’ ri kiq’ab’ xuquje’ kib’aq’il ri k’aslemal ojk’owi chanim,
nojim kinjiq ri loqalaj kaq’iq’ chech unojsaxik ri wanima,
kch’ax ri jun lab’al chi kutiq ri numuxux ruk’ ri ub’uk’b’utem ri uwachulew,
kch’aw ri jun lab’al jas ri ukowil uch’ab’al ri utun ri Tijax
tajin kusol ri upatzkuyal ri nub’aq’il ruk’ ri nuchomanik,
kopan ri nojinaq ik’ kinkunaj le b’is ink’owi ruk’ jun atinem rech atz’am,
ruk’ ri nusoraj wuqub’ uwach q’ayes kink’asuj ri ub’inem ri kik’ pa wib’och,
e nuk’utb’al b’anikil kech’aw ruk’ uch’ab’al le e q’ayes ,par i uq’aq’al ri tuj kink’asuj wi ri nuchoq’ab’il,
kinqumuj uwal taq q’ayes xuquje’ kotz’ij rech kinjamarisaj nuchomanik.
Kinji’ ri nub’aqil, kintzij ri nuse’r cher xepo, jalajoj ukayib’al,
Sib’ rech k’ok’q’ol xuquje’ pom rech rech kujupij ri sutz’ ri kekanaj kan chi uwach nuk’ux,
Kinch’ab’ej le chajinelab’ rech le b’inel ja, le chajinelab’ rech le juyub’,
Le chajinelab’ rech ri b’e, pa jun tinamit pa jun juyub’,
Jawi kriqitaj wi ri nub’inem
Kinchaw ruk’ ri loqalaj kaqiq’ xuquje’ nojimal kinb’ij chech
Xuquje’ ke’inch’ab’ej rech kinkunatajik xuquje’ kinmej wib’ chi uwach ri nub’e’al,
Ri uwachulew ruk’ utzilal kuk’amawaj rojojel le kwaj kinya chech,
Ronojel le kintiko, le uqoxomal ri wanima on ri kikotemal kuk’exo xuquje’ kumaj ub’e,
Kinch’aw chi jun mul ri lab’al xuquje’ kinxojowik, xa rumal chi we kinxojowik kinkunatajik,
Kinxojow kuk’ ri e k’aslik, kuk’ ri e kaminaq, kuk’ ojer ixoqib’,
Kqasalab’aj ri qab’aqil ruk’ ri qaqan kqak’asuj ri uwachulew
Xuquje’ kojb’ixanik xuquje’ kqak’asuj uwach ri qaqul, ktzalij loq ri qab’e’al,
Kqak’ama chi jumul ri qach’ab’al, Kqak’ama chi jumul ri qab’aqil,
Kqak’ama chi jumul ri qaq’ij, Kqak’ama chi jumul ri qakik’el,
Kqak’ama chi jumul ri quxlab’al, Kqak’ama chi jumul ri man kojq’at ta chi rij
Nojim kojuxlab’ik xuquje’ le utzilal ri ja chi kb’in par ri qab’aqil kuya b’e chiqech kojb’inik
Xuquje’ ktzalij loq ri espíritu, kojxik’xot ruk’ ri ub’inem ri k’aslemal
Kintzalij par ri ulew
Kintzalij chi jumul pa ri uwachulew

To Take Back Our Breath

I call upon the energy of our ancestors, our grandmothers,
all the women whose hands and bodies sowed this life in the present,
I take a deep breath of sacred air to fill my clay-jar heart,
a drum, my navel, and the earth beat as one,
a drum thunders like tijax’s lightning¹
splitting the knots in my body and memory,
the full moon is here, I heal my sorrows, I release them in a bath of salt water,
I strike my body with a bundle of seven herbs to awaken my blood flow,
my cells speak the language of plants, I regain my strength in the heat of the tuj,²
I drink herbal and floral teas to ease my restless mind,
I massage my joints, light candles made of lard, of many colors,
I burn incense and pom to blow on the fog trapped in my chest,³
I call upon the keepers of the rivers, the keepers of the hills,
the keepers of the paths, in the city, in the fields,
wherever I set foot,
I speak to the sacred wind and tell it slowly
what I need to heal, and I bow before my truth,
the earth, generous, takes everything I have to offer,
she transforms everything I sow, my worries and joys, and begins again,
I hear a drum and dance, because dancing, too, is healing,
I dance with every woman alive, dead, and from long ago,
we move our flesh and awaken the earth with our feet,
we sing and take back our voice, we take back our truth,
we take back our language, we take back our body,
we take back our time, we take back our blood,
we take back our breath, we take back our freedom,
we take a deep breath, and the dignity of the water in our bodies keeps us flowing,
and our spirit returns, we beat our wings to life’s rhythm I return to the earth
I go back into the world
Kintzalij b’i pa ri ulew
kinel chi lo jun mul chi uwach ulew

¿Jas kinb’ano al Le’n maj chi wuk’ ri ruxlab’ ab’aqil?

¿Jas kinb’ano al Le’n maj chi wuk’ ri ruxlab’ ab’aqil?
Man kinaya ta kanoq tak ali
Itzel ali K’an ali
¡¿Jas kinb’ano?!
Are taq kinchomaj le rislam uxol awa’
Xuquje’ man kinkowin taj kintz’ubu’
Kinmalo, kinok chi upam
On xaq xewi kinwilo atch’analik
Chaya b’e chwech kinmatzej le apam
Kintij la le ki’ taq atz’um
Chakub’a nuk’ux al Le’n
Katwaj rumal ri kinrayij
Chi man utz ta kariqo
Kariqiqej k’ax par ri ak’aslemal
Are chi kattzalij lo wuk’
Chinakuyu al Le’n
Jat atija ronojel ri uwachulew
Xewi chab’ij na kan chwech
¿Jas kinb’ano maj chi wuk’ ri ruxlab’ ab’aqil?

What Am I Going to Do Without Your Smell, Elena?

What am I going to do without your smell, Elena?
don’t leave me, you bitch, you little piece of shit
What am I going to do?
When I think of your pussy and can’t suck, caress,
finger it, or at least see you naked?
let me cling to your belly
sucking your delicious breasts
comfort me, Elena
I love you and that’s why I want your life to go bad
to complete shit
so you come back to me
I’m sorry, Elena
leave, go take on the world
but first tell me
What am I going to do without your smell?

Kanimaj b’i ri qak’u’x wi kqilij taj

Kanimaj b’i ri qak’u’x wi kqilij taj
kuchap b’i ri ub’e we xyakataj royowal
kutij q’an ri ukunab’al wi xyowajik
eb’a’w kcha kan chi qech
maj royowal kanimaj b’ik
maj umak,
wi maj
maj chi qapatan
man oj loq’ob’al ta chik.

The Spirit Leaves If We Don’t Take Care of It

The spirit leaves if we don’t take care of it
forges its own path if it is bothered
takes its own medicine if it gets sick
it leaves, just like that, drifting over the sea
without saying goodbye
it moves on with no remorse
with no guilt.
In its absence
we cease to be sacred
we become something nameless.

Chinach’ab’ej pa ri utzijob’al ri q’ijsaq

Chinach’ab’ej pa ri utzijob’al ri q’ijsaq
chinayikiya’ pa ri kitz’inilem ri ch’umil
chinak’asuj aq’ab’il mojo’q chinwar chi jun mul
are chi katinloq’oj ruk’ ri tijotal waq’
are chi ri kch’anakat ach’ab’al ketz’an chwij
chinatzijob’el ruk’ ri uch’ab’al ri q’ij
chab’ij rax taq tzij chwech are chi kechaq’aj chwij
chab’ana’ jun che ri ab’i’ ruk’ ri wech
xuquje’ chinawaj ruk’ ri keb’ ak’u’x.

Speak to Me in the Language of Time

Speak to me in the language of time
shake me in the silence of the stars
wake me early before drifting back to sleep
so I can love you with my domesticated tongue
so your barefoot voice plays inside my body
speak to me with the sun’s tongue
tell me green words that ripen on my skin
join your name to mine
and love me with your two hearts.

¹ Tijax: the K’iche’ name of a personal guardian spirit represented by an obsidian stone or knife; it is also a day of deep healing in the Maya calendar.

² Tuj: an adobe or stone structure used for medicinal, ritual steam baths.

³ Pom: an incense made from tree resin.

Translated from Spanish to K’iche’ by María Guarchaj and Wel Raxulew
Translated from Spanish to English by Gabriela Ramirez-Chavez

Adapted from Daughters of Latin America, edited by Sandra Guzmán and reprinted with permission from Amistad,
an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers. Copyright 2023.

Photo: Women board a boat on Lake Atitlán, Guatemala, by Robin Canfield, Unsplash.