La Mazamorra

The mazamorra

The mazamorra, you know
It's the bread of the poor
And the milk of mothers
With empty breasts
I kiss the hands
Of the Inca Viracocha
Because he invented corn
And taught its cultivation

In a trough it comes
To unite the family
Greeted by the elderly,
Celebrated by children
Where the goats
Climb silently
And hunger is a cloud
With wings of wheat

Everything is beautiful in it,
The ripe cob
That shucks on nights
Of rural winds
The mortar and pestle
With braids over the shoulder
That among the grains mix
Blushes and sighs

If you want it perfect
Look for a clay bowl
And thicken it with gentle
Neat gestures
From the rocker cut
From fig tree branches
That the nap gives shadows,
Flycatchers and figs.

And if you want, add
A pinch of jume ashes
That plant that summarizes
The salty deserts
And let the flame
Transmit its strength to it
Until it acquires a hue
Slightly amber.
When you eat it you feel
That the town accompanies you
Along valleys,
By river bends
When you eat it, you feel
That the earth is your mother
More than the sad old woman
Waiting on the road
For your return from the field
It's the mother of your mother
And her face is a stone
Worked for centuries.

There are cities that ignore
Its American taste
And many who forgot
Its Argentine flavor
But it will always be
What it was for the Inca
Nurse of the poor
In the Andean moor

The night they execute
Poets and singers
For having betrayed
For having corrupted
The music and the pollen,
The birds and the fire
Perhaps these verses I say
Will save me.