The women in my country cry out in violet and green.
They live through whip, through rotten spring,
through thistle and political parties.
In their lungs, they breathe in names that aren't pronounced anymore.
Names that are painted in blood, that are sewed on skin.
Names of sister, daughter, mother, and friend.
They're huddled in minuscule subway wagons,
Painted pink to let everyone know
how their existence gets squandered in small spaces,
How they've been denied of their own bodies.
The women in my country wear their dresses proudly at fifteen,
But they hide in shame at their first period,
They bloom between cobblestones, inside corners,
They speak in tongues, survive their way through secrets.
And they've got voices that cut through the silence,
They sing in a tone that tells the same stories each time,
A clear whisper that carries history, the real one this time,
A hymnal that told me their names and where they've been.
A country without a single woman, did you hear?
The Ninth of March, Mexico turns into the first country without women.
It has denied their existence for so long,
Insisted time after time they belong inside, locked and mute.
That the Ninth of March, Mexico will learn to listen to silence.
Sing it, mark it on your skin,
If it never changes, if it changes a day after,
At least for one day, Mexico will turn and know.
Know their names, who they were, who they are.
The women in my country live on 09/03.