Lovelorn in Cholula


Crackled the skies of Cholula,

Winds from the past,

Caught trees, scrubs and bushes by their ears,

Punishingly swayed them,

By now they should’ve been well acquainted,

With the tale of this ancient land,

Tilled for eras with spades of death,

With lovelorn Mayan shadows,

Their graves hid under the grass,

Locked around them forever, now restless in their eternal meadows,

Dragging their bruised souls, unattended since the Classic Period,

Hauling their feet across Mesoamerican sand,

Still, sleepless from vintage fears,

Historic colors, the ceaseless current in their tears,

Scorned unexpected,

Trees shoved their sight down to the turf,

Low with shame,

While well-shaved green blades,

Tidy with care from great-great-great sons and daughters,

Overflowing with respect for their pre-historic ancestors,

Looked up at the leaves,

Pinched dumb, green vision to turn nowhere,

They were ready to listen, learn and remember,

Thunder bursts, applaud jolted from above,

From Heaven’s department of Mexico,

Time for lessons from that chilly tempest of time,

Scared, they were ready to hear…


AD 275, that was the year,

The Princess had her youth turning gold,

Her desires ripening,

Her soul burning in fires of passion,

Swollen lips, innocent eyes,

Her nurtured tan craved a man,

She wanted her dream to blossom now,

One that she’d been nourishing since she’d been a little one,

Peeping into the court-room, into majestic sessions,

For only a glimpse of his divine knowledge,

His broad shoulders,

Ones on which rested celestial responsibilities,

The future of their pre-Columbian land,

His power to talk to the Gods,

Bring in Their message for the Lord,

Connect worlds together,

Dexterity at everything from astrology to historiography,

Had her mesmerized since ever,

Till the Mayan Priest,

Eclipsed her senses to everything else,

Had them enslaved to him,

Addicted to his mojo forever…


Little did she know she had a fate,

That would soon start leaking overflowing irony,

That would be soon charcoaled black,

Mourned the kingdom when she was fifteen,

Their King on the brink of death’s cliff,

Everything done, everything tried futile,

It was time for a precious human sacrifice,

She’d thought of a rebellious future,

Her dream to fight the royalty,

Voice up her will to marry off the Priest,

To have him as the unstoppable heir to the throne,

Will be slaughtered, was unthinkable for her little soul,

And, here she was tied to the golden bed,

Lying helpless, her mouth sealed before the temple,

The same cold blooded Worship Preacher, her love,

Getting ready to chant celestial spells,

Green flag her sacrifice,

For he believed only the Princess’ blood,

Could please thirsty Gods,

Heal their King, have Him revived…


Interred somewhere around the Great Pyramid of Cholula,

Her soul roamed the terrain,

Leaped across wilderness of time,

Days and nights, she would spend gazing the church,

Shining on the hill by the field of Mayan graves,

She believed her love was born again as its pastor,

It had defied every law of chronology and age,

It now seeks sympathy,

If not, then gratitude, a share of her royal loyalty,

Maybe support from every breathing organism standing on her soil,

The Mass is on inside,

In his black robe, he would be soon walking out,

The hour of confrontation hath arrived,

Greens of every size,

Join in a collective prayer,

Beg the Gods to have mercy at last,

For today, love shall travel through unsolved labyrinths of space,

Break apart clocks of this universe,

Escape the maze of births, for once and for all,

Catch hold of her love’s new birth,

Have him repent for his age-old sins,

In captivity, have him motionlessly devoured divine,

After, kissing magic to freeze his spine…



(Scripted around the Great Pyramid of Cholula, Puebla, Central Mexico. For more on this historic Pre-Columbian archeological site, visit:,

Images from :,,,


‘Dream Americano’


It’s only been a year in New Jersey,

And trust me, I already have understood,

There’s life even beyond all the despair in my hood’,

There’s life even after we are nearly kissed by death,

Time heals wounds, no matter how deep, time showers mercy…

Raised up tough in the Guatemalan Western Highlands of Chajul,

I belonged to a courageous family of fifteen,

Each one of them was a fighter in the truest sense,

They fought their way till their last breath,

But, they couldn’t make it past the East Mexican province of San Fernando,

I did have the opportunity to count fourteen heads lying away from their bodies,

Before I believe as I heard, the killers returned to deal them out a mass grave…

Refusing a drug cartel to transport their contraband across the border,

Showing courage to stand firmly against them,

Certainly, came with a price…


Leaving me only with memories of how we made it into Mexico,

Raging the perilous waters of the Usumacinta river,

We could fight away and murder at least a dozen of honor-snatchers and robbers,

We turned tides, escaped the criminal order,

Swam our way across the Mexican border,

We held hand in hand, caressed our sore feet,

Plucked leaves, cooked and ate atop our train,

Together we shielded ourselves against the wind and the rain,

We thought we’d made it, we’d left behind over 2200 miles,

All that we did not know,

For illegal immigrants, transporting illicit merchandise was the last test,

The final barrier on their gateway to paradise,

It was a compulsory part of the show,

In front of those drug cartels and their automatic American weapons,

To have the heart pounding, one had to bow…

Like a pack of wolves hungry, blinded by the smell of the last piece of meat,

With dreams of making it to the American fairyland,

A little over two hundred of us started from Guatemala for the U.S.A,

Glossy streets and glittery jobs, we’d heard of many a fortunes turning gold,

But, as they life has plans chalked out for you,

Even before you know…

I was the lone survivor out of my family of fifteen,

I was among the eight, the only ones that made it alive,

Out of the clutches of poverty,

Out of those gang ridden corn, coffee and coca fields for life,

It’s the price paid every year by millions of Latinos

Poor and helpless, all they know,

This is what it takes to dream ‘Americano’…