Wake up, mis Viejitos, tell me about your days.

Tell me about your goings, tell me about your stays.

Tell me about the ones above and of the ones below.

Tell me of every thing you’ve seen and everyone you know.

Wake up, Angelitos, when I say your names.

Share with us the images beyond those in a frame.

The echoes in adobes and the echoes in the fields.

The echoes in my blood are how I know that you are real.

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