Across the border, where the river flows, A heavy trade wind rises up and blows. In council halls, the delegates converse, To weigh the tariff and to guard the purse. The northern line is drawn through sand and stone, Where ancestral claims and treaties stand alone. Deep in the halls where ancient files remain, The law recalls a decade's quiet pain— The missing voices of the mountain night, And long-due answers stepping to the light. A name remembered in a crowded street, Where justice stirs, unfinished yet concrete. Through desert compounds fenced against the sun, The hidden engines of the shadow run; Stolen currents, weapons laid in dust, And captive predators in silent trust, While speakers fall beneath an evening sky, And sirens answer to a troubled cry. Yet clouds gather dark above the central plain, The reservoirs fill full with sudden rain; Cutzamala breathes after years of drought, And turns the city's thirsty fears to doubt, While northern factories, humming sharp and bright, Assemble the future in the desert night.
