Sante Muerte 

​She is all cinnamon, cloves, and Agave nectar. She is a mouthful of Earth, rich but hard to swallow. Maybe you’ll choke on her grit or be nurtured by her ancient soils. You can’t come at a serpent and not expect for it to strike and recoil. Maybe you’ll get sweet syrup from the spoils of her desert or harsh tequila to stun your senses. She is no island. She is no paradise. She is the savage beauty of the outlands. She is the wild west. She is the holy sacrament of blood and the curse of Aztec Gold. She is the outrage of her innocent people that were brutalized for the riches of her depths. She is the old world Goddess  they call her mother, the old tribes of Mexico. Her lands are stained with the horrors of her own people and you can hear her cries along the water at night as she mourns for her children’s pain. During the day you’ll see the remnants of a great empire that lived, breathed, you’ll see ghost rise from ashes and dust. You’ll see them dance in the age old regalia and sing the songs of the old language, that will fall from their lips like fresh fruit. Their brown skin will glint with the opaque golden glitter of spirits past. They will swing their hips with the heat of salsa, and stomp their feet to call of the death whistle.They sing her tears that run like just perked coffee and boiled dark chocolate, into a river of despair. They celebrate the lost and call them home to her. A nation lost shall rise again and today will be the day of the dead. Sante Muerte approaches with her bosom bare for all to see, fresh with the milk of her love, so that we may drink and heal. 

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