Cuzcatlán

 
The native Nawat has been slowly disappearing
Like a piece of art lost in the thread of time and history
You would have to go deeper into the hills to find it
The native tongue that sounds like legend and mystery
 
Amidst the small pueblos and cantones you find them
Living in small houses made of brick and mud
In the patios women make tortillas over brick ovens
And delicious beans in a pot to add iron to the blood
 
Nantzin sits with her visitor, speaking both languages
Her native Nawat and the Spanish everyone uses
The smell of wood, beans and corn a few feet away
As she regales with stories of her youth
 
Her voice is soothing and calming like a warm breeze
You can hear birds singing somewhere in the distance
Her eyes are lively her hair is gray and her smile is bright
Reminding us of a time and peoples and their existence
 
She’s not really mestizo but more original, indigenous
Families that have lived around the cerros for centuries
They wear clothes with traditional colors and patterns
Speaking a dialect of their Aztec-Mayan ancestors
 
Today towns bear the names of ancient people and places
The stadium proudly displays the name like a palace
As the modern age seems to weave itself through
A mix of the old and new tries to find balance
 
Now the dialect is being resurrected by young academics
Trying to connect to the forefathers, back to their roots
Trying to preserve what was once almost lost to the settlers
The Cuzcatlecos, part of my native ancestral attributes