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Entry of a Honduran-American

Entry of a Honduran-American My heart beats to the rhythm of my mother’s homeland. My eyes search for the similarities of the lands of the ones I am in & the land that I cherish. My lips taste the fruits and don’t quite reach the length of the smile from the ones I have tried. They tell me, ‘but you are American,’ I tell them ‘no, I am what I choose to be.’ They tell me, ‘you don’t look Hispanic.’ I tell them, ‘neither can you see my blue blood.’ They tell me, ‘it is much better here.’ I tell them, ‘it is much different there.’ I hold dear the memories of the scattered homes on the mountains, brightly lit beacons of hope. You know you love a land when you even love the rooster that crows every morning. My heart beats to the rhythm of Honduras.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2017




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Date: 1/10/2017 1:02:00 PM
Don’t worry about that minute schism, inside each heart beats counter rhythm; sounds of heritage embedded deep; can make one sleep, or make one weep.
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