The Massacre of ’32
Martínez, the ruthless hand,
cast a shadow dark and cold
over fields where farmers stood,
asking only to be whole.
In ’32 the soil ran red,
native blood soaked the land,
shattered silence filled the air—
a people’s cry, a desperate stand.
Juan Gavidia, child of earth,
raised his rifle, fired his pain,
bullets tore through brother’s hearts,
loyalty bound in chains of shame.
Each fallen body told a tale,
a broken breath, a fading song,
and Juan lived to count the cost—
the lives extinguished, one by one.
Now the winds carry their names,
memories no grave can hide,
voices rise from past’s deep wounds,
refusing ever to subside.
Yet from that scarred and broken land,
hope’s fragile seed begins to grow,
as long as hearts remember still,
resistance will refuse to bow.
—Lucelar
Comentarios